THE 
AMBITI< 

0!,-' 

MARK 
TRUITT 


lip 


HEN  RY 
RUSSELL 
MILLER 


THE  AMBITION  OF  MARK  TRUITT 


THE  AMBITION  OF 
MARK  TRUITT 

By 

HENRY  RUSSELL  MILLER 

AUTHOR  OF 

The  Man  Higher  Up,  His  Rise  to  Power,  Etc. 


/  INDIANAPOLIS 

THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT  1913 
THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 


PRESS   or 

BRAUNWORTH    4k    CO. 

BOOKBINDERS    AND    PRINTERb 

BROOKLYN.    N.    Y. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTBR  PACK 

I  DREAMS 1 

II  THE  PATH  OF  YOUTH 21 

III  THE  MASTERS 36 

IV  THE  SERVICE  OF  THE  STRONG 52 

V  CROSSROADS 71 

VI  MELTING  ORE 84 

VII  SOLDIER  AND  MAID 104 

VIII  AFIRE US 

IX  LIQUID  IRON 125 

X  WOUNDED  ON  THE  FIELD 141 

XI  THE  MEASURE  OF  A  MAN 154 

XII  A  MAN  AND  His  WIFE 172 

XIII  TROPHIES .  190 

XIV  IN  THE  MOLD 206 

XV  STUFF  OF  DREAMS 220 

XVI  GLOWING  EMBERS 238 

XVII  FANNED  INTO  FLAME 252 

XVIII  SUNDERED  BONDS  ..........  268 

XIX  BOND  THOUGH  FREE 277 

XX  THE  RED  GLOW 291 

XXI  ARCADY       301 

XXII  THE  CLEFT  STICK 314 

XXIII  PHILANTHROPY 332 

XXIV  THE  PRESSURE  OF  TRUTH 347 

XXV  PAYMENT 365 

XXVI  THE  PENITENT 381 

XXVII  CITIES  UNBUILT 398 

XXVIII  WHITE  WATER 411 

XXIX  THE  MIRACLE 423 

XXX  THE  ULTIMATE  PURPOSE                         .     .     .  443 


2137403 


THE  AMBITION  OF  MARK  TRUITT 


THE  AMBITION  OF 
MARK  TRUITT 

CHAPTER  I 

DREAMS 

HE  drifted  into  the  delectable  land  that  lies  be- 
tween sleep  and  waking,  tasting  the  fleeting 
savor  of  his  dreams — the  epic  visions  of  full-blooded 
youth.  They  had  passed  just  beyond  memory, 
leaving  a  confused  yet  glowing  sense  of  sharp  com- 
bats waged,  of  victories  won.  A  golden  haze  en- 
veloped him.  Through  it  filtered  a  dwindling 
resonance,  as  of  some  noble  processional  sung  by  a 
departing  far-distant  choir. 

A  wave  of  delight  rippled  over  him.  Then  the 
thought  that,  not  sharing  his  slumber,  had  painted 
his  colorful  dreams,  worked  to  the  surface. 

"My  last  day  here !" 

He  awoke  slowly.  Before  him,  seen  through  the 
unshuttered  window,  lay  a  world  somber  enough  to 
one  tugging  against  its  restraints,  lovely  when  it  was 
to  be  left  behind.  He  saw  the  September  sun  peep 
over  the  hills  at  the  head  of  the  valley,  rise  majestic- 
ally and  swing  clear,  a  golden  disk  hung  in  the  sky, 
symbol  of  the  reward  of  men's  struggles;  its  radi- 
ance, streaming  into  the  little  room,  dispelled  shab- 
biness  with  a  mellow  glow  he  could  almost  feel. 

i 


2     THE   AMBITION    OF   MARK   TRUITT 

Purplish  shadows  rested  on  the  eastern  slopes — the 
hue  that  is  the  badge  of  conquest.  The  breeze 
brought  its  offering,  a  rich  earthy  fragrance  that  he 
inhaled  eagerly.  The  matin  sounds  arose,  according 
finely  with  the  lingering  echoes  of  his  dream  music. 
He  reveled  in  a  new  perception. 

He  was  twenty  years  old. 

He  was  not  one  to  loll.  He  sprang  from  bed  and 
stood  naked :  supple  beautiful  youth,  too  slender  for 
great  strength  but  with  the  unconscious  grace  of  the 
wild  animal.  Something  animal-like,  too,  was  the 
pleased  look  that  played  over  his  face,  as  he  breathed 
in  the  fragrance  of  the  morning.  It  was  an  odd 
face,  swarthy  from  the  summer  sun,  neither  weak 
nor  strong  but  unset :  the  countenance  of  youth  un- 
tried. Yet  it  was  not  without  its  promise.  He  would 
do  or  be  nothing  negative,  this  youth ;  the  dark  rest- 
less eyes,  deep-set  and  wide  apart,  proclaimed  in- 
tensity, primitive  passion. 

He  dressed  and  stood  by  the  window  in  the  atti- 
tude of  a  listener.  Intently  he  sought  to  define  the 
faint  other-world  resonance  that  still  seemed  to  vi- 
brate about  him.  But  the  theme  eluded  him. 

His  illusion  was  effectually  shattered.  Into  the 
subdued  melody  of  the  Sabbath  morning  thrust  a 
profane  intruder,  the  jerky  wheezing  notes  of  a  cab- 
inet organ  in  the  day's  hymns,  played  by  some  one 
who  aspired  beyond  endowment. 

He  frowned,  then  threw  back  his  head  and 
laughed  silently — a  trick  he  had  sometimes — at  the 
absurd  anticlimax. 


DREAMS  31 

"I'm  still  in  Bethel.  It's  a  long  way  from  here  to 
— there."  He  drew  a  long  deep  breath. 

A  question  halted  him.    "There — where?" 

He  shook  his  head  vigorously,  as  though  to  throw 
off  the  query,  and  went  down  to  the  kitchen. 

The  odor  of  frying  ham  saluted  his  nostrils;  he 
sniffed  it  hungrily.  A  man,  apparently  old,  was 
placing  heavy,  chipped  ironware  dishes  on  the  table. 
He  nodded  briefly  in  response  to  the  youth's  blithe 
greeting. 

"I'll  be  ready,"  he  said  in  a  dull  flat  voice,  "time 
ye're  back  from  the  stable,"  and  continued  his  slow 
precise  setting  of  the  table. 

In  a  few  minutes  the  other  returned,  the  horses 
fed  and  his  own  hands  and  face  scrubbed  in  cold 
water  from  the  cistern.  They  sat  down  without 
speaking.  The  youth  ate  eagerly,  gulpingly. 

When  the  first  keenness  of  appetite  was  gone, 
burning  to  talk  of  the  great  hour  at  hand,  he  broke 
the  silence.  "Well,  father,  this  is  my  last  day  in 
Bethel." 

The  old  man  merely  nodded,  keeping  his  eyes  on 
his  plate. 

Boyishly  the  son  began  to  set  forth  his  plans  and 
hopes  and  expectations;  they  were  not  small.  But 
the  old  man  maintained  his  silence.  The  youth  con- 
ceived him  to  be  an  unsympathetic  audience. 

"Guess  you're  not  interested,"  he  said  a  trifle 
sulkily. 

"Yes,  I'm  intrusted,  Mark,"  the  father  answered, 
"but  there  ain't  anything  to  say."  He  raised  his 


4    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

glance  to  the  window.  "Guess  I  couldn't  say  any- 
thing that'd  help  much." 

The  sweep  of  youth's  anticipation  faltered  before 
a  quality  in  the  old  man's  words.  Old,  "old  Simon"  : 
so  his  neighbors  called  him.  Yet  he  was  not  really 
old,  but  in  the  noonday  of  life  wore  the  gray  mantle 
of  age.  For  he,  too,  had  dreamed  his  big  golden 
dreams.  Below  the  village  stood  a  dismantled  rot- 
ting forge,  monument  to  their  futility.  Most  men 
have  in  them  only  one  big  battle;  of  them  was 
Simon  Truitt.  After  his  failure  he  had  returned  to 
his  shop  and  trade,  shoeing  his  neighbors'  horses, 
mending  their  wagons  and  plows,  a  dull-eyed,  taci- 
turn, spiritless  plodder.  A  hint  of  the  tragedy  of 
failure,  bread  of  the  majority,  came  to  the  young 
man.  A  cloud  had  passed  across  the  sun.  They  fin- 
ished the  meal  in  heavy  silence. 

At  length  Simon  Truitt  rose  and  began  to  clear 
the  table.  The  son  moved  toward  the  door.  There 
he  paused,  vaguely  sensible  of  a  sorrow  to  which 
some  soothing  word  was  to  be  said.  But  the  word 
would  not  come  to  lips  unschooled  in  such  tender 
office.  He  went  slowly  out  into  the  sunshine. 

In  the  stable  he  curried  the  horses,  lingering  over 
the  pretty  brown  mare — latest  and  finest  trophy  of 
his  horse-trading — until  her  coat  shone  satiny.  This 
labor  of  love  ended,  he  lighted  a  pipe  and  sat  in  the 
stable  doorway.  The  warm  sun  beat  upon  him; 
the  shadow  cast  by  a  glimpsed  shipwreck  lifted. 

He  sat  there  until  from  across  the  town  came  a 
flat  unmusical  clamor,  the  cracked  church  bell  call- 


DREAMS  5 

ing  the  faithful — that  is  to  say,  all  Bethel  save  one — 
to  worship.  He  rose  reluctantly.  Soon  he  emerged 
from  the  little  house,  shaved  to  the  blood  and  clad 
in  the  discomfort  of  Sunday  clothes.  The  lithe 
animal-like  grace  had  departed. 

Always  on  warm  Sabbath  mornings  Simon  Truitt 
was  to  be  found  sitting  on  the  stoop,  and  always 
facing  the  north;  the  dismantled  forge  lay  to  the 
south.  He  was  that  one  for  whom  the  cracked  bell 
tolled  in  vain ;  he  was  supposed  to  be  an  atheist. 

"Coin'  to  church  ?"  he  asked  in  the  expressionless 
tone  that  was  his  habit. 

"I  guess  so,"  answered  Mark.  "Unless,"  with 
sudden  understanding,  "you'd  like  me  to  stay." 

Simon  hesitated,  then  shook  his  head.  "No,  ye'd 
better  go  same  as  always.  Courtney 'd  want  ye  to." 

"I  owe  him  a  lot." 

Simon  nodded.  "More'n  to — any  one  else  here. 
Think  a  good  deal  o'  him,  don't  ye  ?" 

"Yes.     Sometimes  he's  kind  o'  queer,  though." 

Simon  nodded  again.  "D'ye,"  he  asked  unexpect- 
edly, "d'ye  believe  what  he  preaches?" 

"Why,  yes!"  said  Mark.  "Yes,  I  s'pose  so,"  he 
amended. 

The  dull  glance  momentarily  sharpened.  "Not 
very  much,  I  expect.  Better  believe  it  hard — or  not 
at  all.  It's  most  time  fur  church." 

Mark  swung  heavily  down  the  path.  The  father's 
eyes  followed  him  wistfully.  One  might  even  have 
said  that  the  pity  which  a  few  hours  before  had 
dwelt  in  the  son's  glance  now  crept  into  the  father's. 


6    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK   TRUITT 

Mark  joined  the  straggling  procession  that  moved, 
stiffly  decorous,  toward  the  house  of  worship. 
Once,  during  the  short  journey,  a  spring  wagon 
overtook  and  passed  him;  a  girl  in  the  rear  seat 
turned  and  nodded.  A  wave  of  red  surged  into  his 
dark  face.  Until  the  wagon  drove  into  the  church- 
yard, his  glance  clung  to  the  mass  of  yellow  hair 
under  the  pink  hat.  Unconsciously  his  step  quick- 
ened. 

He  found  an  empty  pew  near  the  door,  and  enter- 
ing, leaned  back,  half  closing  his  eyes.  A  solemn 
hush  fell ;  the  service  began.  He  followed  the  con- 
gregation as  it  rose  and  sat  in  hymn  and  prayer  and 
lesson ;  but  he  moved  mechanically,  without  thought 
of  worship.  To  him  had  come  again  that  vague 
sense  of  battles  fought  and  won,  the  faint  blurred 
echoes  of  distant  music.  The  man  in  the  pulpit, 
feebly  struggling  against  a  sense  of  futility,  was 
preaching  to  him.  But  the  dreaming  youth  did  not 
understand;  the  gentle,  sometimes  plaintive  voice 
could  not  dispel  his  vision.  Often  his  glance  sought 
the  far  corner  where  a  shaft  of  morning  sunshine 
had  set  a  mass  of  yellow  hair  ashimmering.  The 
sight  and  his  dreams  gave  him  a  new  and  daring  re- 
solve. The  hour  sped  swiftly. 

"Unto  Him  ...  be  glory  and  majesty,  domin- 
ion and  power.  .  .  .  Amen!" 

The  solemn  stately  words  died  away  in  a  whisper. 
Again  fell  the  brief  reverent  hush. 

The  youth  awoke  to  the  fact  that  the  congrega- 


DREAMS  7 

tion  was  beginning  to  disperse.  He  went  quietly 
from  the  church;  in  the  yard  he  took  a  station  by 
which  the  farmer  folk  must  pass  to  their  vehicles 
and  there,  as  he  had  resolved,  boldly,  in  the  eyes  of 
all,  he  waited  for  her.  Young  farmers,  on  their 
way  to  hitch  up,  saw  the  eager  figure  and  passed 
sly  comment.  He  was  not  disturbed.  The  spell  was 
still  upon  him ;  for  these  heavy-witted  jokers  he  had 
but  the  explorer's  contempt  for  timid  unimaginative 
stay-at-homes. 

She  appeared,  a  slender  girl  who,  as  she  moved 
slowly  around  the  church,  wove  a  spell  over  the 
betrousered  portion  of  Bethel,  even  where  she  had 
not  the  subtle  aid  of  dreams.  She  was  not  small  but, 
neatly  made,  gave  an  effect  of  daintiness  not  charac- 
teristic of  the  maids  of  that  valley.  Heavy  flaxen 
braids — almost  lifeless  in  the  shadow,  burnished 
gold  in  the  sunlight — framed  a  dainty  face,  not  reg- 
ular in  feature  but  clear-cut  as  a  cameo  and  of  a  col- 
oring so  delicate  as  to  seem  almost  pallor ;  a  spirited 
face,  girlish,  and  when  occasion  called,  appealing. 
Dainty,  too,  were  the  white  muslin  dress,  the  pink 
hat  with  its  nicely  knotted  ribbons,  and  at  least  in 
advance  of  the  fashions  regnant  in  Bethel ;  over  her 
shoulder,  at  graceful  angle,  slowly  twirled  a  small 
white  parasol. 

Whence  this  dainty  blossom  amid  the  less  come- 
ly if  more  florid  daughters  of  Bethel? 

Into  the  valley,  three  years  before,  had  strayed  a 
plausible  gentleman  who  discussed  education; 


8    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

in  particular,  education  as  dispensed  at  Miss  Smith's 
Seminary  for  Young  Ladies,  an  institution  of  Con- 
cord, forty  miles  away.  And  so  glowing  was  his 
eloquence  that  Squire  Martin,  measuring  cube  roots 
and  Latin  declensions  against  his  hard  won  dollars, 
sent  his  youngest  daughter  to  acquire  what  he  had 
not;  what  could  the  honest  squire  know  of  those 
higher  things  discussed  and  learned  in  seminaries 
for  young  ladies  ?  There  had  been  born  an  intimate 
acquaintance  with  The  Ladies'  Home  Journal  and 
kindred  magazines. 

And  for  the  rest,  there  were  her  hands,  white  and 
soft;  her  sisters',  to  take  no  wider  example,  were 
rough  and  red.  For  Unity  was  supposed  to  be  "deli- 
cate", hence  was  spared  those  arduous  tasks  that 
leave  so  little  time  to  study  of  beauty  hints  and 
fashions.  If  there  were  some  to  suggest  that 
"Squire  Martin's  family  let  Unity  make  fools  of 
'em/'  at  least  no  males  were  among  these  critics. 

Self-conscious  to  the  finger-tips  but  not  betraying 
it,  she  picked  her  dainty  way  among  the  gossiping 
groups,  tossing  gay  little  smiles  to  this  and  that  in- 
toxicated youth,  blissfully  deaf  to  an  occasional 
feminine  titter  in  her  wake.  As  with  that  mytho- 
logical being  who  by  her  walk  stood  revealed  a  very 
goddess,  so  Unity's  languid  ladylike  air  proclaimed 
her  finer  clay.  Unity  would  have  been  the  first  to 
admit  that,  though  an  unkindly  fate  had  set  her  in 
Bethel,  she  was  not  of  it. 

And  so  she  came  to  a  halt  beside  Mark,  looking 


DREAMS  9 

up  with  a  smile  that  made  him  forget  curious  ob- 
servers. The  parasol  continued  to  twirl  lazily;  he 
thought  of  a  butterfly  alighting  only  to  fly  away 
again. 

"Good  morning,  Mark!" 

"Unity !"  His  voice  was  low,  tense,  as  though  he 
announced  some  tragic  happening. 

She  continued  to  smile;  a  family  group,  frank 
curiosity  in  their  gaze,  was  passing.  "Wasn't  Doc- 
tor Courtney's  sermon  fine  this  morning!  I 
thought — "  The  group  had  passed.  "What  is  it?" 

"I'm  going  away  to-morrow." 

The  parasol  stopped  suddenly  in  the  tightened 
clasp.  The  pose  fell  from  her;  the  vivacity  from 
her  face,  leaving  it  very  serious.  One  saw  then  that 
her  extreme  girlishness  was  only  an  effect,  that  she 
was  at  least  as  old  as  he.  One  saw,  too,  in  the  thin 
line  of  her  lips  and  the  set  little  chin  why  her  hands 
were  white  and  soft  and  her  sisters'  otherwise. 

"To  the  city  ?    For  good  ?" 

"To  the  city.    For  good." 

"I  am  glad." 

"Glad!"  he  stammered.  "I  thought — I  wanted 
you  to  be  sorry." 

"Yes,"  she  nodded  emphatically.  "I'm  glad — for 
you,"  she  added  more  softly. 

He  remained  silent,  an  unreasoning,  indefinite 
disappointment  lingering.  Something  he  wanted — 
he  could  not  say  what — was  lacking  in  her  words. 

"Aren't  you  glad?" 


io    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

"Yes,  but — "  He  dismissed  the  doubt.  His 
eagerness  returned.  "I'm  going  driving  this  after- 
noon." 

She  became  girlish  again.  "Is  that  an  invita- 
tion?" with  a  demure  little  smile. 

"If  you  want  to  go." 

"Of  course,  Mister  Solemn!  Aren't  you —  She 
stopped,  apparently  overcome  with  confusion  for 
her  boldness. 

"Say  it !"  he  besought  thirstily. 

There  was  a  delicious  moment  of  uncertainty,  a 
breathless  little  laugh. 

"My  lover.  There!  I'll  be  waiting  for  you,  just 
after  dinner."  And  the  butterfly  fluttered  away. 

He  went  from  the  churchyard  and  followed  the 
street  past  the  point  where  it  returned  to  its  native 
state  of  dusty,  weed-flanked,  country  pike.  He  came 
to  a  place  where  the  road  rose  sharply  and  fell  again. 
Mounting  to  the  crest,  he  threw  himself  on  the  road- 
side and  waited;  thither  Richard  Courtney  would 
come  on  the  after-service  walk  that  was  his  custom. 

Before  him  lay  the  valley,  a  great  wide  basin  en- 
circled by  a  broken  rampart  of  hills  as  yet  unrav- 
ished  of  their  first  growth.  From  its  placid  river, 
slender  relic  of  the  flood  that  had  cut  this  fertile 
valley  out  of  the  rock,  glanced  the  sheen  of  midday. 
A  few  billowing  masses  of  snow-white  vapor  hung 
overhead;  their  shadows  drifted  lazily  over  hill  and 
meadow.  The  breeze  had  fallen;  through  a  heavy 
languorous  stillness  came  the  ceaseless  song  of  the 
distant  rapids.  It  was  an  hour  of  peace,  of  rest. 


DREAMS  ii 

But  youth  thinks  not  upon  peace,  asks  not  rest. 
Sweep  of  valley,  play  of  color  on  the  hills,  shining 
river  and  majestic  frigates  of  the  sky  were  to  him 
but  the  background  for  a  girlish  figure  that  tripped 
lightly  before  him,  looked  up  to  him  with  alluring 
eyes.  Youthlike,  he  invested  her  with  charms  ineffa- 
ble, witting  not  that  she  whom  he  loved  was  but  the 
creature  of  his  own  desire.  Pride  swelled  within 
him — was  not  she,  so  much  finer  made  than  other 
women,  to  be  his?  Unworded  but  wonderful 
thoughts  of  her  stirred.  She  fused  with  his  dreams 
of  the  morning,  interpreted  them  for  him.  For  her 
he  would  endure  the  shock  of  battle,  bring  home  the 
trophies. 

The  moment  of  disappointment  was  forgotten. 

Up  the  rise,  village-bound,  leisurely  creaked  an 
ancient  top-buggy.  In  it  slouched  a  middle-aged 
man  upon  whose  face  were  written  humor  and  pa- 
tience, qualities  of  which  he  had  great  need  just 
then.  His  horse  labored  heavily  at  its  task,  head 
hanging  low;  not  the  bellows  in  Simon  Truitt's 
smithy  puffed  louder  or  harder.  At  the  crest  it 
stopped  without  urging.  Mark  frowned  impatient- 
ly. Then  he  noted  the  sad  state  of  the  horse  and  a 
grin  displaced  the  frown. 

"Hear  you're  going  away,"  "Doc"  Hedges  re- 
marked. "For  the  good  of  the  town?" 

Mark  nodded,  the  grin  widening.  "Maybe  you'd 
like  to  help  pay  my  fare  ?" 

"I  have  helped,"  the  doctor  rejoined  dryly.  "Go- 
ing to  get  rich,  ain't  you?  They  all  think  that." 


12     THE   AMBITION    OF   MARK   TRUITT 

"It  happens  sometimes." 

"You  might,  though.  Any  man  ought  to  get  rich 
that  could  sell  me  this — would  you  call  it  a  horse  ?" 

"Hmm !"  Mark  considered  the  animal  judicially. 
"Well,  it  has  four  legs." 

"So's  a  billy  goat,"  drawled  the  doctor.  "Goat'd 
be  more  use  to  me,  too." 

"What  did  you  buy  it  for,  then  ?" 

"I  ain't  squealing.  Pretty  slick  customer,  ain't 
you?" 

The  grin  returned.  "I  can  sell  horses,"  Mark 
modestly  admitted,  "to  some  people." 

"Humph!  Only  a  fool'd  buy  'em  of  you,"  the 
doctor  agreed.  "What'll  you  take  for  the  brown 
mare  ?" 

"The  brown  mare  isn't  for  sale." 

"Any  horse  is  for  sale,"  the  doctor  insisted,  "at 
the  right  price.  Give  you  a  hundred  and  fifty." 

"I  wouldn't  sell  her  for  two-fifty." 

"You  won't  have  the  chance,  either.  I'll  throw 
in  Bucephalus" — thus  he  designated  his  steed— 
"for  boot." 

Mark  shook  his  head  with  an  air  of  finality.  "I've 
got  other  uses  for  the  mare." 

"Mean  that?" 

Mark  nodded.  The  doctor  sighed  and  clucked  to 
the  weary  horse. 

As  it  laboriously  got  under  way,  he  leaned  out  of 
the  buggy  to  call  back,  "Saw  you  sparking  Unity 
Martin  the  other  night.  Hope  you  get  her.  She'll 
make  you  a" — he  grinned  sardonically  and  raised 


DREAMS  13 

his  voice  that  his  point  might  not  miscarry — "a  heap 
wise  man,  sonny." 

Mark  frowned  again.  The  doctor  was  a  distinctly 
discordant  note. 

Out  of  the  dusty  cloud  trailing  behind  the  creaky 
buggy  emerged  a  tall  stooping  figure,  clad  in  the 
rusty  black  of  the  country  clergyman.  He  walked 
slowly,  and  when  he  came  to  the  rise,  with  a  slight 
effort;  evidently  he  was  a  frail  man  physically.  At 
the  crest  he  stopped,  breathing  hard. 

"Taking  a  good-by  look  at  it?"  he  asked  between 
breaths. 

"No.    Just  waiting  for  you." 

The  preacher  smiled  faintly;  the  worn  dispirited 
face  lighted  up  a  little.  He  turned  his  glance  to  the 
valley. 

"It's  worth  a  farewell.  You'll  be  homesick  for 
it  sometimes — I  hope.  Shall  we  walk  a  bit  far- 
ther?" 

At  his  lagging  pace  they  tramped  along  the  road, 
constantly  rising  and  descending  but  always  reach- 
ing up  toward  a  higher  level.  They  kept  the  frank 
silence  of  those  who  have  been  companions  often. 
Under  cover  of  an  apparent  abstraction  the  preacher 
gravely  scrutinized  the  youth,  asking  himself  again 
the  question  that  had  been  uppermost  in  his  mind 
ever  since  he  learned  that  the  other  was  to  take  the 
path  beaten  by  so  many  questing  youths  of  Bethel. 

Ten  years  before  Richard  Courtney  had  resigned 
the  city  congregation  that  was  steadily  withering 
under  his  ministry  and  had  come  to  shepherd  the 


14     THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

little  flock  of  Bethel.  It  proved  to  be  a  life  sentence, 
but  in  the  end  he  stayed,  if  not  gladly,  at  least  with 
such  Christian  fortitude  as  a  quivering  sensitive 
soul  could  summon;  having  found — so  he  put  it — 
a  need  to  which  he  could  minister.  In  the  early  days 
of  his  new  service  he  had  discovered  a  neglected, 
unlettered,  moody  youngster  suffering  under  the 
blight  of  his  relation  to  Simon  Truitt,  who,  for  his 
supposed  atheism,  was  accounted  a  little  less  than 
respectable.  Some  quality  in  the  boy  caught  the 
preacher's  fancy.  Tactfully  he  sought  to  win  into 
Mark's  heart,  not  a  very  difficult  task  once  the  lad 
learned  that  ministerial  conversation  was  not  con- 
fined to  graphic  pictures  of  eternal  torment.  And 
then,  not  quite  realizing  how  this  new  interest  eked 
out  the  Christian  fortitude  just  mentioned,  he  set 
about  to  make  Mark  over.  From  Richard  Courtney 
the  blacksmith's  son  had  had  his  Vergil  and  Xen- 
ophon  and  Homer,  his  Euclid  and  Quackenbos. 
What  may  have  been  best  of  all,  he  had  had  Richard 
Courtney. 

And  Richard  Courtney  had  had  Mark  Truitt. 
Gradually  the  boy  came  to  be  the  test  of  the  preach- 
er's service,  the  justification  of  his  life  which  the 
shelved  man  craves.  In  the  intense,  imaginative, 
quick-brained  lad  he  thought  he  discerned  a  rare 
spirit  fitted  to  be  a  chevalier  of  the  Lord,  a  fighter 
of  others'  battles,  a  bearer  of  others'  burdens;  thus 
we  may  read  what  Richard  Courtney  would  have 
made  his  own  life.  He,  the  exile,  had  failed ;  but  in 


DREAMS  15 

the  larger  life  from  which  he  had  been  banished  he 
would  live  again  and  be  felt  through  a  fine  strong 
man  of  his  making.  For  ten  years  he  had  jealously 
surveyed  the  prospect,  patiently  toiled  and  prayed 
that  it  might  be. 

But  now,  when  the  day  for  which  he  had  prepared 
was  come,  he  was  not  happy.  The  question  contin- 
ually recurred.  How  well  had  he  builded? 

He  was  not,  when  he  put  aside  the  tinted  glasses 
of  hope,  blinded  by  many  illusions.  He  considered  his 
work  honestly:  how  incomplete,  after  all,  it  was; 
how  vainly  they  strive  who  seek  through  parrot-wise 
repetition  to  impart  the  knowledge  life  alone  can 
give,  through  much  preaching  and  many  books  to 
give  understanding.  With  suddenly  clarified  vision 
he  beheld  the  youth  at  his  side,  raw,  unshaped,  the 
reaches  of  his  soul  as  yet  unlighted  by  purpose, 
unwarmed  by  inspiration.  After  ten  years  he  was 
almost  as  Richard  Courtney  had  found  him. 

"I  have  scoured  the  windows.  I  can  not  give  the 
light,"  thought  the  preacher  sadly. 

They  came  to  a  moss-covered  watering-trough 
that  stood  at  the  roadside.  Mark  went  to  it  and 
leaned  over  to  drink. 

"Wait!"  commanded  the  preacher. 

"But  I'm  thirsty." 

"Wait!" 

With  a  smile  Mark  obeyed.  He  was  used  to 
queer  commands  from  this  man.  They  went  on, 
each  busy  with  his  own  thoughts.  Courtney's  ques- 


16    THE   AMBITION   OF    MARK   TRUITT 

tions  continued.  Had  he  failed  again  completely? 
And  why? 

He  became  aware  that  Mark  had  broken  the  si- 
lence. "I — I  owe  you  a  lot,"  he  had  said. 

"Not  very  much,"  Courtney  sighed.  "I  wish  it 
were  more — much  more." 

"Oh,  yes,  it  is  much.  You've  taught  me  to  read 
and  talk  and — and  think."  Courtney  repressed  an 
unhappy  smile.  "You've  made  me — see  big.  You've 
got  me  ready  to  go  away  from  here.  I — I  appre- 
ciate it." 

"I'd  rather  you  could  see  true.  But  must  you 
go?"  The  plea  was  without  spirit;  he  knew  its  use- 
lessness.  "There's  a  life  to  be  lived  here,  even  by  a 
man  who  sees  big.  I  wish  you  would  stay,  at  least 
for  a  while." 

"No,  I  must  go  now.  I've  a  reason  you  don't 
know." 

The  preacher  felt  a  jealous  pang. 

"I,"  he  thought,  "for  ten  years  have  been  giving 
my  best  thought,  my  best  prayers,  to  the  making  of 
this  boy.  ...  A  pretty  face  crosses  his  path, 
and  in  a  moment  my  fine  creation  shrinks  to  this 
passionate  young  animal — merely  shrewd  where  I 
would  have  him  big,  exulting  in  strength  where  I 
wanted  him  to  rejoice  in  service,  desirous  where  I 
have  taught  him  to  aspire.  ...  I  have  failed 
again." 

After  a  while  he  said  aloud,  "Did  you  by  any 
chance  hear  my  sermon  this  morning  ?" 


DREAMS  17 

Mark  looked  away,  uncomfortable.  "Only  part 
of  it.  I  was  thinking  pretty  hard." 

"Of  yellow  braids  and  a  pretty  complexion," 
Courtney  said  to  himself  bitterly. 

Mark  was  frowning  in  an  effort  to  recall  and 
piece  together  detached  phrases  that  had  floated  to 
him  during  the  service  and  then,  finding  no  welcome, 
floated  away.  "It  was  about,"  he  said  hesitatingly, 
"it  was  about  a  man  finding  his  big  idea." 

"I  am  flattered."  The  dry  droll  inflection  was  a 
concealment. 

"The  big  idea,"  said  Mark  vaguely,  "does  it  mean 
—God?" 

"It's  His  way  of  lifting  the  world  forward. 
It's — "  Courtney  stopped  abruptly,  with  a  hopeless 
smile.  He  looked  away  across  the  hills. 

Suddenly,  with  an  oddly  appealing  gesture,  he 
turned  again  to  Mark.  All  the  intense  longing  of 
the  man  who  has  dreamed  and  failed  and  yet  clung 
to  some  fragment  of  his  hope,  painting  his  vision, 
breathed  in  his  words. 

"Some  day  you  may  remember  I  told  you.  It's 
the  big  purpose  that  sometimes  comes  to  the  big 
passionate  man,  to  accomplish  some  work  for  its 
own  sake;  that  grips  him,  drives  him,  makes  him 
ruthless  to  his  own  desires,  forgetful  of  his  failures 
and  blind  to  everything  but  his  task;  that  trans- 
forms him  into  a  narrow  zealot,  a  fanatic,  but  a 
power — always  a  power,  because  he  is  his  purpose 
incarnate.  It  is  that  without  which  the  big  man  is 


1 8    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

wasted,  because  he  is  that  dangerous  useless  thing, 
a  force  uncontrolled.  .  .  .  It's  what  I  wanted 
you  to  have." 

Mark  stared.  "I — I'm  afraid  I  don't  understand." 

"And  I,"  Courtney  cried,  "I  can't  make  you  un- 
derstand! But  you  will  know,  when  it  comes  to 
you."  The  fire  began  to  die  from  his  eyes  and  voice. 
"If  it  comes,"  he  added. 

"What  is  your  big  idea  ?" 

The  man  looked  at  him  queerly. 

"Ah!  You  shouldn't  have  asked  that,"  he  an- 
swered, in  quick  relapse  to  the  odd  dry  inflection. 
"If  I  were  not  as  I  am,  I  should  say — you." 

And  again  Mark  had  to  say,  "But  I  don't  under- 
stand." 

Courtney  did  not  try  to  enlighten  him.  "Let  us 
go  back,"  he  said.  They  retraced  their  steps  down 
the  undulating  road  that  led  into  the  valley. 

They  had  passed  the  watering-trough  again  be- 
fore Mark  noticed  it.  He  stopped,  pointing  back 
to  it. 

"I  think,"  he  smiled,  eager  to  soothe  the  disap- 
pointment he  felt  but  could  not  explain  in  his  men- 
tor, "I  understand  that.  I'd  forgotten  I  was 
thirsty." 

"You  think  so?"  Courtney  answered,  almost 
roughly.  "But  you  don't  understand.  Though  that, 
at  least,  is  something  life  will  teach  you — and  before 
long.  .  .  .  You  will  forgive  me  if  I  am  a  bit 
sharp.  I  am  a  little  disappointed  to-day — in  my- 
self." 


DREAMS  19 

For  a  while  Mark  considered  perplexedly  this 
outburst.  Then  he  dismissed  it  as  one  of  the  incom- 
prehensible moments  of  a  man  whom,  despite  odd- 
ities, he  liked  very  much.  He  returned  to  the 
thought  that  had  led  to  the  moment. 

A  little  timidly  he  made  the  offer.  "I'm  going 
to  leave  the  brown  mare  with  you,  if  you'd  like  her." 

But  he  needed  not  to  fear.  The  moment  had 
passed.  The  man  who  was  big  enough  to  suffer  but 
not  to  achieve  was  gone;  only  the  faded  mild-man- 
nered preacher  remained. 

"It's  good  of  you  to  think  of  it.  But  you  can  sell 
her  well.  And  you'll  need  the  money." 

"I  know.  But  I  want  you  to  have  her.  I  traded 
to  get  her  for  you." 

Courtney  would  not  spoil  his  pleasure.  "Of 
course,  I — "  His  acceptance  halted.  "No,  give  her 
to  Doctor  Hedges." 

Mark  shook  his  head.    "I  want  you  to  have  her." 

"He  needs  a  good  horse.    The  one  he  has — " 

"It  was  a  fair  trade,"  Mark  asserted  defensively. 

A  turn  of  the  road  brought  them  within  sight  of 
a  great  hill  that  stood  across  the  valley.  Over  its 
level  top  swept  breezes  filtered  pure  through  many 
leagues  of  forest.  "Hedges  Hill"  the  village  called 
it,  finding  humorous  matter  therein. 

Courtney  pointed.  "That  is  where  the  doctor 
wants  to  build  his  sanatorium  for  consumptives." 

"I  know.  He's  cracked  over  that.  He'll  never  do 
it." 


ao    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

"Perhaps  not.  It  would  be  too  bad.  It,"  Court- 
ney added  quietly,  "is  his  big  idea." 

Mark  looked  long  at  the  hill,  as  though  from  the 
site  of  the  sanatorium  in  Spain  might  be  gleaned 
some  hint  of  the  meaning  of  the  "big  idea." 

After  a  while  he  said  slowly,  "Would  you  really 
rather  he'd  have  the  mare  ?" 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  PATH  OF  YOUTH 

HAD  Richard  Courtney  thought  to  look  back 
to  his  own  adolescence,  he  might  have  under- 
stood his  failure. 

Mark,  whose  life,  the  preacher  supposed,  was  to 
be  made  over  by  many  books  and  sermons  on  pur- 
pose, unselfishness  and  clean  living,  was  in  fact 
seeing  a  miracle  of  quite  another  sort  unfold  within 
him. 

Companionship,  once  sought,  had  suddenly  be- 
come distasteful.  He  was  happy  only  when  wan- 
dering alone  in  the  woods,  idle  gun  on  shoulder,  or 
drifting  lazily  in  his  canoe.  In  his  wanderings  river 
nook  and  forest  were  peopled,  not  as  in  former  time 
by  the  bold  fraternity  called  forth  from  his  books, 
but  by  cloudy  exquisite  figures  that  danced  before 
him  and  then  whisked  provokingly  out  of  sight.  To 
see  a  fluttering  skirt  in  the  distance  or  hear  unex- 
pectedly a  ripple  of  girlish  laughter  was  to  put  him 
in  an  inexplicable  but  delicious  tremor.  And  no  one 
taught  him  to  understand  the  miracle. 

Sometimes,  shyly,  ashamed  without  knowing  why, 
he  asked  questions  of  Richard  Courtney,  but  always 
he  was  put  off  with  carefully  inconclusive  answers. 

21 


22    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK   TRUITT 

The  unwisdom  of  maturity  that  seeks  to  blind  bud- 
ding youth  to  the  first  vital  fact  of  its  existence !  The 
knowledge — of  the  fact  of  an  instinct,  not  of  its  re- 
lation— could  not  be  denied  him.  He  won  it  out  of 
the  air,  from  other  boys  beholding  the  same  miracle, 
from  chance  sayings  of  the  loafers  around  the 
stores.  Once,  left  alone  in  Courtney's  study,  he 
strayed  upon  a  volume  of  Arabian  Nights  from 
which  no  prudish  hand  had  subtracted ;  instinctively 
surreptitious,  he  carried  it  home. 

The  first  ecstasy  of  sex  knowledge  passed.  He 
added  to  his  years  and  stature  and  was  put  to  work 
in  his  father's  shop.  A  while,  for  the  most  part,  a 
new  interest  pushed  his  revelation  into  the  back- 
ground. The  labor — not  hard  or  prolonged — he 
liked.  To  swing  hammer  and  sledge  and  feel  them 
grow  lighter  in  his  grasp,  to  see  the  red  iron  taking 
form  under  his  blows,  were  to  him  a  joy,  not  a  task. 
Congenial  toil  awoke  another  instinct:  he  wanted 
to  "do  something." 

But  the  urgent  first  instinct,  never  quite  asleep, 
stirred  at  capricious  intervals,  the  more  imperative 
for  its  lapses.  At  such  times  he  would  flee  to  the 
woods  or  river  to  feast  his  eyes  and  imagination 
upon  the  sensuous  shadowy  shapes  his  fancy  con- 
jured. And  once,  pretending  a  two  days'  hunt  in  the 
hills,  he  stole  by  a  roundabout  way,  on  passionate 
quest,  to  Concord.  He  returned,  not  ashamed  but 
disappointed.  And  this,  for  him,  was  the  interpre- 
tation of  his  miracle;  he  felt  that  a  gross  deception 
had  been  put  upon  him.  In  the  reaction  he  re- 


THE    PATH    OF   YOUTH  23 

nounced  his  miracle,  utterly  and  forever — or  so  he 
thought. 

After  a  period,  during  which  his  body  shot  up  to 
its  full  height,  wholesome  toil  and  study  busied 
his  thoughts  and  Richard  Courtney  began  to  nurture 
vain  hopes,  occurred  an  event  of  no  small  impor- 
tance to  many  young  gentlemen  of  Bethel.  Unity 
Martin,  proud  possessor  of  a  diploma  declaring  to 
those  who  cared  to  peruse  that  she  had  mastered 
certain  arts,  came  home  to  exhibit  in  all  its  perfec- 
tion the  product  of  education. 

He  was  returning  late  from  an  afternoon's  hunt 
in  the  woods  behind  the  Martin  farm,  when  he  unex- 
pectedly came  upon  her  one  autumn  day.  She  was 
standing  on  a  little  knob,  gazing  absently  into  the 
fading  sky.  His  ever  ready  imagination  was 
touched.  In  the  dusk,  the  pale  glow  of  the  dying 
day  upon  her,  her  pensiveness  and  apparent  frailty 
gave  her  a  seeming  of  soulfulness  that  abashed  him, 
moved  him  strangely.  He  thought  he  beheld  one  far 
finer  and  purer  than  any  of  the  clayey  creatures  his 
life  had  touched.  She  saw  him  and  smiled  faintly. 
That  smile  put  him  in  an  agony  of  confusion  and 
awkwardness.  He  felt  he  ought  to  steal  quietly 
away  from  this  holy  place  into  which  he,  gross  and 
hulking,  had  blundered;  at  the  same  time,  like  the 
apostle  of  old,  he  had  some  notion  of  building  a 
tabernacle  and  residing  permanently  on  the  spot. 

Because  he  did  not  know  how  to  depart,  he  found 
himself  walking  home  with  her,  and  when  she 
praised  the  pheasants  slung  over  his  shoulder,  on  a 


24     THE   AMBITION   OF    MARK   TRUITT 

sudden  glad  impulse  he  gave  to  her  and  she  quite 
naturally  accepted  the  trophy  of  his  hunt.  This 
was  a  prophecy,  but  he  was  no  seer. 

It  was  long  before  he  lost  that  impression  of  her, 
the  frail  spirit-like  girl  of  the  dusk,  even  though 
riper  acquaintance  might  have  taught  him  that  she 
was  indeed  a  dweller  upon  the  earth.  And  this  was 
a  new  miracle,  far  more  wonderful  than  the  old ;  he 
in  nowise  thought  of  connecting  them.  He  used  to 
stand  abstracted  before  the  forge  fire,  seeing  her 
face  in  the  glowing  embers :  a  folly  indulged  inter- 
mittently between  fits  of  feverish  industry.  He 
whispered  her  name  to  himself,  thinking  it  finest 
poetry.  He  suffered  a  profound  humility,  an  exceed- 
ingly painful  consciousness  of  his  total"  depravity, 
and  an  ardent  zeal  to  achieve  nobility — under  her 
pure  inspiration.  His  desire  to  "do  something"  be- 
came a  burning  impatience  to  do  large  and  splendid 
deeds  that  would  prove  his  mettle.  He  was,  in  a 
word,  a  boy  who  thought  himself  in  love. 

And  she?  She  saw  his  desire  and  was  glad.  For 
though  there  were  castes  in  Bethel,  his  elders  spake 
of  his  promise  and  he  had  grown  good  to  look  upon, 
desirable  even  to  the  diplomaed  daughter  of  Squire 
Martin.  And  she,  too,  had  her  visions  of  a  larger 
life. 

Came  a  night,  a  still  winter's  night  when  moon- 
light gleamed  on  the  snow  and  the  chimes  of  sleigh- 
bells  added  to  the  enchantment,  when  he  kissed  her, 
with  a  sense  of  sacrilege — and  she  did  not  resist. 

No  wonder,   then,   Richard   Courtney   preached 


25 

purpose  in  vain !  His  pupil's  horizon  was  filled  with 
a  purpose  not  his  own.  Even  the  preacher's  incom- 
prehensible outburst  was  forgotten,  as  the  boy  went 
to  his  tryst  that  Sabbath  afternoon. 

For  a  mile  he  drove  carefully  and  then,  letting  out 
the  mare,  with  a  flourish  of  speed  drew  up  before 
the  house  of  Squire  Martin.  It  was  the  most  pre- 
tentious in  the  valley,  big  and  white,  with  iris-lined 
walks  and  hollyhocks  growing  along  the  fence; 
heavy  masses  of  moon  vines  hid  the  wide  porch. 
Not  without  quaking,  our  cavalier  perceived  Susan, 
eldest  daughter  of  the  squire,  in  the  front  yard. 
With  an  effort  Mark  put  on  what  he  fondly  believed 
was  a  confident  air. 

"Good  afternoon,  Susan.    Is  Unity  'most  ready?" 

Susan  smiled  broadly.  "She's  been  ready  half 
an  hour,"  she  treacherously  declared,  "but  she's  still 
primpin'.  Won't  you  come  in  an'  visit  a  while  ?" 

"No,  thank  you,"  very  politely.  "I'll  wait  out 
here.  The  mare  won't  stand." 

"Then  I'll  go  in  and  hurry  her  up.  That  is,  if 
you  really  are  in  a  hurry!"  she  drawled  mischie- 
vously. 

He  grinned  feebly  and  mopped  his  brow.  She 
went  into  the  house. 

Soon  Unity  appeared,  fresh  and  dainty  in  her 
white  dress  and  pink  hat,  followed  by  Susan  bear- 
ing a  heavy  pasteboard  box.  While  Mark  awkward- 
ly helped  his  lady  into  the  buggy,  Susan  slipped  the 
box  under  the  seat.  Mark  got  in  and  the  brown 
mare,  needing  no  command,  started  away. 


26     THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK   TRUITT 

"I  put  up  some  lunch,"  Susan  called  after  them. 
"Don't  forget  to  eat  it !" 

"And  so,"  breathed  Unity,  "you're  really  going 
away — at  last!  How  did  you  happen  to  decide  to 
go  just  now  ?" 

Mark  knitted  his  brow  in  the  effort  to  make  clear 
what  he  himself  did  not  understand — there  were  so 
many  things  he  did  not  understand,  this  day!  "I 
don't  know.  It  just  came  to  me  the  other  day  that 
I  couldn't  stay  here  any  longer.  Somehow,  ever 
since  we  began  to  talk  of  the  city,  this  place  has 
seemed  so  small  and  shut  in — until  this  morning." 

"Until  this  morning?"  in  some  alarm. 

"Then  it  seemed  kind  o'  cozy  and — and  protected. 
I  hate  to  leave  it.  I  hate  to  leave  you,  Unity." 

"And  I'll  hate  to  have  you  go.  But,  of  course, 
you  must.  And  then,  before  very  long,  you'll  come 
back — and  take  me  away  with  you." 

For  a  while  in  silence  they  gave  this  prospect  the 
consideration  it  deserved.  Then: 

"Unity!" 

The  brown  mare,  in  the  belief  that  she  had  been 
addressed,  leaped  forward.  When  she  had  been 
restrained  to  a  sober  gait,  Mark  began  ecstatically  to 
unfold  the  inspiration  that  had  come  to  him. 

"Unity,  why  can't  you  come  with  me — now?" 

"I  wish  I  could,"  she  sighed.  "But,  of  course, 
that's  foolish." 

"Foolish?  Why?  I've  a  little  money  now  and 
I  can  make  a  living  for  us  both.  I'm  not  afraid  of 
work."  He  stretched  out  his  driving  arm ;  the  other 


THE    PATH    OF    YOUTH  27 

was  engaged.  "There's  a  lot  of  work  there,  I  tell 
you." 

Her  admiring  glance  thrilled  him.  "Yes,  I  know. 
And  I'm  so  proud  of  you.  But  we  must  be  prac- 
tical." 

"You — practical!"  He  threw  back  his  head  and 
gave  his  silent  laugh.  He  was  at  heart  proud  that 
she  was  not  practical;  ordinary  girls  possessed  that 
commonplace  quality. 

"Yes,  I  am,"  she  insisted  stoutly,  "very  practical. 
And  it's  never  practical  to  take  what  you  want  until 
you  can  have  it — as  you  want  it." 

"But  isn't  that  what  we  want — to  be  together? 
And  it  would  be  easier  if  we  could  make  our  fight 
together." 

She  shook  her  head.  "No,  it  would  be  harder. 
I'd  only  be  a  drag.  And  you  can  get  on  much 
faster  if  you  have  only  yourself  to  think  of  for  a 
while.  We  just  mustn't  think  of  it." 

His  disappointment  was  plain.  She  hastened  to 
relieve  it. 

"You  know,"  she  purred,  "I'm  not  very  strong 
and  I  couldn't  do  much  to  help.  And  it'll  be  harder 
for  me  than  for  you.  You'll  be  having  your  work 
and  the  new  life  to  think  of,  while  I  can  only — 
wait."  As  she  said  it  she  gave  him  a  pathetic  pic- 
ture: Penelope,  patient  and  faithful,  waiting 
through  leaden-winged  months,  mayhap  years,  for 
her  wandering  lord's  return.  He  became  very  con- 
trite that  he  had  forgotten  her  frailty. 

"Oh,  Unity,  how  can  you  love  me  so?" 


28    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK   TRUITT 

She  was  able  to  answer  him  on  this  point  in  a  way 
to  satisfy  him  and  yet  leave  him  humbly  grateful 
for  his  vast  good  fortune. 

The  brown  mare  warmed  to  her  work.  The  stac- 
cato of  hoofs  upon  the  smooth  valley  road  became 
sharper,  quicker.  Meadow-land  and  stubble-field, 
here  and  there  a  patch  of  waving  corn,  were  swiftly 
passed.  Unity  had  taken  off  her  hat ;  the  afternoon 
sun  fell  upon  her  hair,  touched  it  into  life.  One 
wisp,  loosened  by  the  rushing  wind,  lay  across  her 
forehead,  a  slender  fillet  of  fine  gold.  Her  eyes 
danced,  the  tinge  of  color  in  her  cheeks  deepened  in 
the  joy  of  speed.  She  seemed  so  girlish,  so  trusting, 
so  undefiled  by  all  evil  or  selfish  thought,  and  withal 
so  fragile !  He  caught  her  close  in  a  sudden  impulse 
of  protectiveness. 

They  turned  into  a  hill  road,  a  rough  way  that  the 
mare  took  slowly.  Throughout  the  afternoon  they 
wove  a  careless  course,  sometimes  through  long 
stretches  of  cool  shade,  again  over  some  sunlit  crest 
from  which  they  saw  other  hills  rolling  away,  billow 
after  billow,  until  lost  in  the  blue  haze.  Their  senses 
warmed;  they  committed  little  follies  of  speech  and 
love-making;  they  laughed  a  great  deal  upon  the 
slightest  excuse,  or  gravely  discussed  problems  of 
domestic  economy.  The  thought,  never  far  distant, 
of  the  coming  separation  added  a  not  wholly  disa- 
greeable tinge  of  melancholy  that  made  each  hour 
the  sweeter. 

The  shadows  were  quite  long  when  they  espied  a 
great  flat  rock  in  a  clearing  a  little  way  from  the 


THE   PATH    OF   YOUTH  29 

road.  And  there,  in  a  delicious  intimacy  that  they 
solemnly  asserted  was  but  a  foretaste,  they  remem- 
bered to  eat  the  lunch  put  up  by  the  thoughtful 
Susan.  Afterward  they  spent  a  rapturous  hour 
watching  the  sun  g'ide  down  to  meet  the  hills.  He 
wondered,  would  she  think  him  altogether  foolish  if 
he  told  her  of  the  music  he  had  heard  in  the  morn- 
ing? 

She  broke  a  long  silence  to  say  dreamily,  "You*re 
going  to  be  very  rich,  aren't  you  ?" 

He  laughed.  "Maybe.  It  isn't  always  so  easy  to 
get  rich,  you  know." 

"But  everybody  says  you  will." 

"Everybody — in  Bethel — may  not  know."  Then 
he  added  firmly,  "But  I  will — for  you.  Aind 
then — "  He  paused  as  one  who  views  a  prospect  be- 
yond his  powers  to  describe. 

But  he  did  not  mention  the  dream  music,  after  all. 

All  at  once  shadow  was  everywhere.  The  sun  had 
gone.  But  into  the  sky,  with  prodigal  hand,  it  flung 
from  its  retreat  behind  the  hills  the  promise  of  a  fair 
to-morrow.  For  a  while  the  two  on  the  rock  gazed 
into  a  lurid  shifting  splendor. 

He  got  down  from  the  rock  and  lifted  his  armt 
to  her.  She  stood  uncertain,  looking  down  at  him. 
The  glow  of  the  sunset  was  still  upon  her;  in  heir 
eyes  was  another  glow,  from  within,  for  him. 

She  measured  the  distance  to  the  ground — it  was 
almost  her  own  height — then,  with  a  gasp  for  her 
daring,  she  sprang  into  his  arms.  He  caught  her 
and  held  her,  kissing  her  again  and  again,  thirstily. 


30    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

She  began  to  respond ;  her  arms  tightened  around  his 
neck;  she  clung  very  close.  Suddenly  she  pushed 
herself  away  and  stood  looking  at  him  through 
startled  eloquent  eyes.  And  he  knew  that  for  once 
he  had  awakened  that  which  filled  the  want  he  had 
felt  in  the  morning. 

She  cried  tremulously,  "Oh,  Mark,  you  won't  for- 
get me — out  there.  I — I  couldn't  bear — that." 

"I  will  not  forget." 

A  last  bright  shaft  reflected  from  the  crimson 
west  flooded  their  little  clearing,  fell  upon  her.  And 
that  was  the  picture  of  her  he  carried  "out  there" — 
Unity  in  the  sunset  glow,  eyes  and  cheeks  aflame 
with  love,  desiring  him  only  and  not  that  he  would 
win. 

In  the  little  laboratory  back  of  his  office  Doctor 
Thomas  Hedges  was  busily  concocting  and  labeling 
his  medicines  for  the  next  day's  rounds.  He  yawned 
often  and  gapingly;  he  was  very  tired  and  sleepy. 
He  had  been  up  all  the  night  before,  ushering  a 
new  life  into  the  world  and  sadly  seeing  another 
pass  out ;  and  he  had  been  able  to  take  no  rest  during 
the  day,  thanks  to  the  broken- winded  horse  a 
"pretty  slick  customer"  had  induced  him  to  install 
as  successor  to  a  lately  deceased  comrade  and  serv- 
ant. 

He  was  disturbed  by  a  suspicious  sound  from  the 
direction  of  his  stable. 

"Those  boys  again !"  he  muttered. 

Lighting  a  lantern,  he  stole  out  quietly.    He  was 


THE    PATH    OF    YOUTH  31 

astonished  to  discover,  not  mischievous  boys,  but  the 
figure  of  a  man  hitching  a  horse  to  a  buggy. 

"Hi,  there !"  the  doctor  shouted.  "What  are  you 
doing  in  my  stable — with  my  horse?" 

He  ran  toward  the  stable,  swinging  the  lantern 
violently  around  his  head.  But  the  intruder  went 
on,  unmoved,  with  his  buckling  of  straps. 

Then  the  doctor  recognized  him.  "Eh?  So  it's 
you !  I  knew  you  were  a  horse-trader,  but  I  didn't 
know  you  stole  'em  this  way." 

"Do  you  suppose  I'd  steal  this?"  was  the  cool 
rejoinder.  "I'm  just  making  a  little  trade." 

"Without  my  consent?  Well,  of  all  the  high- 
handed—" 

"Hadn't  you  better  look  in  the  stable  before  you 
fly  off  the  handle  ?"  Mark  grinned. 

The  doctor  took  the  suggestion.  He  was  heard 
swearing  softly  to  himself,  as  in  the  light  of  the  lan- 
tern he  inspected  the  substituted  animal.  The  doc- 
tor, though  a  church  member,  was  in  moments  of 
stress  given  to  mild  profanity.  He  emerged,  blink- 
ing stupidly. 

"Eh  ?"  He  went  out  to  Mark,  and  holding  up  the 
lantern,  stared  intently  into  the  young  man's  face. 

"Well,  are  you  satisfied  ?" 

The  doctor  began  to  chuckle.  "That  damn  par- 
son!" 

Mark  climbed  into  the  buggy  and  gathered  in  the 
reins.  "Is  it  a  trade?" 

The  chuckle  was  getting  beyond  control.  "Go! 
Go  quick — before  you  come  out  of  that  trance.  And, 


32     THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK   TRUITT 

sonny,"  as  the  horse  started,  "here's  some  advice — 
that  you  won't  take.  Don't  go  away.  Stay  with  the 
parson — for  the  good  of  the  town  and  your  immor- 
tal soul." 

But  Mark  was  gone. 

The  changeling  had  been  put  away  in  the  brown 
mare's  stall.  Mark  slowly  crossed  the  yard  to  the 
little  house  that  was  to  be  Simon  Truitt's  lonely 
abode — that  had  been,  it  suddenly  struck  the  son, 
Simon's  lonely  abode.  A  light  shone  from 
the  kitchen.  Through  the  window  Mark  caught  a 
glimpse  of  his  father  at  the  table,  sitting  bolt  up- 
right, staring  dully,  steadily  at  nothing,  a  figure  of 
hopeless  endurance.  More  than  once,  coming  upon 
him  unexpectedly,  Mark  had  found  him  so  and  had 
thought  nothing  of  it.  What,  Mark  now  wondered, 
did  he  think,  what  bitter  morsel  taste,  during  those 
long  silences  ? 

"Little  late,  ain't  ye?"  Simon  greeted  him.  But 
there  was  no  reproof  in  the  words,  and  no  ques- 
tion; he  assumed  no  right  to  pry  into  his  son's 
affairs. 

"I've  been  taking  a  drive,"  Mark  answered. 

Simon  rose  and  went  into  the  pantry.  He  re- 
turned, carrying  a  pitcher  of  milk  and  a  plate  piled 
high  with  buttered  bread. 

"I  kept  this  ready  fur  ye.  Thought  ye  might  be 
hungry." 

Mark  was  not  hungry,  but  he  ate  with  a  show  of 
great  relish.  Some  instinct  told  him  not  to  decline 
this  little  service. 


THE    PATH    OF   YOUTH  33 

"Father,"  he  announced,  "I  swapped  horses  with 
Doc  Hedges.  I  gave  him  the  brown  mare." 

Even  Simon  could  show  surprise.  "Why,  I'm 
pleased  ye  did  that.  ...  Did  Courtney  ask  ye 
to?" 

Mark  laughed  qucerly.  "Doc  said,  'That  damn 
parson !'  But  I  wanted  to — after  I'd  thought  about 
it,"  he  added. 

"I'm  glad  ye  wanted  to,"  Simon  answered  simply. 

A  little  later  he  broke  another  silence.  "Guess 
ye're  purty  glad  to  git  away  from  here  ?" 

In  the  morning  Mark  would  have  answered  with 
an  unqualified,  "Yes."  Now  he  said,  "I  am — and 
I'm  not."  He  drew  a  long  breath  that  was  almost  a 
sigh.  "It's  like  going  in  swimming  in  April." 

"Ye're  right  to  go,"  Simon  said.  "I  wouldn't 
want  ye  to  stay.  There  ain't  any  prospect  fur  a 
young  man  round  here." 

He  rose,  and  going  to  the  cupboard,  fumbled 
among  the  dishes.  When  he  returned,  he  laid  be- 
fore Mark  a  worn  pocketbook  of  leather.  Mark 
opened  it  and  glanced  at  its  contents. 

He  looked  up  questioningly.  "Why,  there  must 
be  'most  a  thousand  dollars!" 

"Jest  that.    I've  been  savin'  it  fur  ye." 

Impulsively  Mark  pushed  it  back  toward  Simon. 
"But  I  can't  take  it.  It  won't  leave  you  anything, 
and  I  don't  need  it.  I've  got  more'n  five  hundred  of 
my  own." 

"I'd  ruther  ye'd  take  it,"  Simon  insisted  heavily. 
"It'll  come  in  handy.  If  ye  don't  need  it,  ye  can  find 


34    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK   TRUITT 

a  safe  place  fur  it.  An'  ye  can  pay  it  back,  if  ye 
ever  git  rich.  I,"  he  repeated,  "I've  be'n  savin'  it 
fur  ye.  I  knowed  ye'd  go  away  some  day  an'  I 
wanted  ye  to  take  somethin' — frum  me." 

Mark's  hand  went  slowly  to  the  pocketbook. 
"All  right,  father."  The  words  fell  awkwardly. 
"I'll  pay  it  back  some  day.  And — thank  you." 

"Ye're  quite  welcome,"  answered  Simon  with 
quaint  formality. 

He  went  again  to  the  cupboard  and  took  down  a 
battered  tin  candlestick.  He  lighted  its  candle  and 
started  toward  the  inward  door.  Half-way  there,  he 
stopped  abruptly  and  turned,  his  mouth  working 
strangely. 

"If  ye  ever  git  rich/'  he  dragged  the  words  out 
slowly,  even  painfully,  "come  back  here  an'  build  a 
steel  plant.  There's  a  heap  of  fine  coal  an'  iron  in 
these  hills,  an'  the  river  an'  railroad'll  give  ye  good 
transportation.  This  valley's  meant  fur  it.  I  was 
jest  a  little  too  early — an'  a  little  too  ignorant,  I 
reckon.  But  ye're  smarter  an'  better  schooled  than 
me,  an'  the  time's  comin'.  I'd  like  to  see  a  Truitt 
build  it." 

Never  before  had  Simon  Truitt  spoken  of  his 
dream  and  failure  to  his  son. 

"Why,  yes,"  Mark  answered,  on  a  sudden  pitying 
impulse,  "I'll  think  about  it." 

"Yes.  Keep  thinkin'  about  it.  It's — it's  a  big 
idea." 

Mark  started.  The  phrase  again !  Simon  went  to 
the  window  and  peered  out  into  the  silvery  night — 


iTHE   PATH   OF   YOUTH  35 

toward  the  south.  Then  he  moved  heavily  toward 
the  door.  He  turned  again;  the  flickering  light 
from  the  candle  threw  the  lined  patient  face  into 
sharp  relief. 

"Good  night,  Mark." 

"Good  night,  father." 

The  door  closed.  For  many  minutes  Mark,  left 
alone,  absently  fingered  the  pocketbook  and  thought 
of  the  man  who  had  given  it  to  him.  Then  he  blew 
out  the  lamp  and  rose  from  the  table. 

He,  too,  paused  at  the  window  and  looked  out 
into  the  night,  toward  the  south.  He  tried  to  see  the 
sleeping  valley  as  his  father  dreamed  it,  alight  with 
the  fires  of  many  furnaces,  palpitant  with  the  rum- 
ble of  many  engines.  He  thought  he  saw  it. 

The  picture  faded.  He  saw  only  a  vague  shad- 
owy mass  in  a  moonlit  meadow,  the  dismantled 
forge,  silent  witness  that  for  those  who  march  upon 
the  battle-field  that  is  called  industry  is  no  third 
choice.  They  must  conquer — or  be  conquered ! 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  MASTERS 

HE  found  himself,  a  lonely  foreign  figure  know- 
ing not  whither  he  would  go,  somehow  in  the 
city's  heart.  A  gathering  fog — not  the  silver-white 
mist  that  sometimes  lightly  enshrouded  Bethel,  but 
a  thick  murky  pall  that  oppressed  the  senses — had 
brought  twilight  while  it  was  yet  only  late  afternoon. 
The  crunching  of  wheels  and  the  shuffling  of  many 
feet  upon  the  pavement  rose  in  a  harsh  hissing  roar, 
unceasing,  monotonous.  Movement — dizzying,  fev- 
erish, kaleidoscopic  movement — was  everywhere,  tir- 
ing the  eye,  a  picture  that  shifted  always  and  yet  was 
always  the  same.  It  was  the  hour  of  which  he  had 
dreamed;  his  promised  land  lay  before  him.  And 
it  was  indeed,  that  first  plunge  into  the  teeming  city, 
like  diving  into  April  waters. 

Chance  led  him  to  the  principal  thoroughfare. 
The  city  had  begun  to  quit  its  toil,  and  the  released 
toilers  were  pouring  into  the  street,  an  endless  un- 
ordered horde,  heedless  of  him  as  they  were  of  one 
another.  Never  before  had  he  seen  so  many  people. 

He  had  a  confused  sense  of  being  sucked  into  a 
narrow  gloomy  canon  through  which  poured  a 
flood  of  humanity,  a  treacherous  dangerous  torrent 


THE   MASTERS  37 

with  many  cross-currents.  Countless  faces,  wan  in 
the  unnatural  twilight,  streamed  by  him ;  a  stranger 
type  to  him,  fox- featured,  restless  of  eye.  All  sorts, 
all  ages:  a  curious,  hurrying,  self-absorbed  multi- 
tude, niggardly  of  time  in  which  it  was  rich,  prodi- 
gal of  strength  in  which  it  was  poor.  The  tumult 
and  incessant  movement  bewildered  him.  He  won- 
dered that  the  human  face  was  capable  of  so  many 
variations,  what  gave  them  all  that  strained  anx- 
ious look  and  why  they  hastened  as  if  under  the 
lash  of  some  unseen  master. 

The  shock  of  a  disappointment  as  yet  undefined 
chilled  him.  Never  had  he  felt  so  alone.  He 
thought  wistfully  of  his  hills  and  river.  Something 
he  had  dreamed  was  lacking.  .  .  . 

There  was  a  corner  where  two  canons  met  and 
their  streams  mingled  in  an  elbowing  mob.  A 
pinched  furtive  face  looked  up  at  him,  grinning 
impudently. 

"How's  the  crops,  Si?" 

At  the  same  time  Mark  felt  a  tug  inside  his  coat. 
He  was  being  pressed  upon  from  all  sides  but,  not- 
withstanding his  bewilderment,  his  hand  instinc- 
tively went  to  protect  the  precious  pocketbook. 
It  found  and  closed  upon  the  hand  of  the  thief.  The 
pocketbook  settled  back  into  its  rightful  place. 

That  was  a  grip  to  make  a  man  writhe.  The 
thief  writhed,  his  face  distorted  with  pain  and  fear. 
He  cursed  his  captor. 

"Damn  you,  let  me  go !"  he  hisscfl. 

Mark  let  him  go  as  he  would  have  freed  a  slimy 


38    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

serpent.  The  pickpocket  squirmed  through  the 
crowd  and  was  gone.  No  one  had  seen. 

Farther  on  he  was  halted  again.  A  shriek  rose 
even  above  the  roar  of  the  street.  He  followed  the 
crowd  that  gathered  and  over  many  heads  caught  a 
glimpse  of  a  crushed  bleeding  form  prostrate  under 
a  heavy  dray.  The  onlookers  pressed  close,  not  in 
helpful  interest  but  in  a  morbid  curiosity  to  him 
more  ghastly  than  the  torn  flesh.  An  ambulance 
came  and  carried  the  hurt  one  away.  The  crowd 
resumed  its  hurried  march,  absorbed  once  more  in 
its  divers  cares,  the  tragedy  forgotten. 

The  incidents  oppressed  him.  They  seemed  to 
define  his  disappointment.  He  came  from  the  clean 
silent  places  where  life  is  held  dear  and  men,  even 
strangers,  meeting  howsoever  casually,  were  used  to 
part  lingeringly,  regretfully.  But  here  in  this  gorge 
through  which  the  city  poured  its  flood  of  men  he 
felt — he  was  too  dazed  to  think — something  far 
different:  life  cheapened  by  its  very  multiplicity, 
lives  isolated,  even  more  surely  than  by  hermitdom, 
by  the  knowledge  of  their  cheapness. 

Soon  a  riper  understanding  was  to  set  in  order 
that  first  impression  of  the  city  crowd — the  pale- 
faced  throng,  weaklings  most  of  them  but  taught  to 
fight  with  the  venomous  desperation  and  unscrupu- 
lous craft  of  those  who  know  that  to  go  down  in 
the  melee  is  to  be  trampled  forever  underfoot;  all 
lacking  sense  of  fellowship,  none  secure  in  his 
neighbor's  faith,  having  lost  through  unnatural  con- 
tact all  real  joy  in  the  human  relation.  But  even 


THE   MASTERS  39 

then,  with  only  instinct  and  quivering  senses  to 
teach  him,  he  felt  in  each  passer-by  an  aloofness,  a 
shrinking  from  others,  an  ill-veiled  hostility  and 
suspicion.  It  troubled  him;  though  he  had  come 
dreaming  of  conquest,  it  was  to  be  in  a  friendly 
generous  struggle  that  should  know  no  bitterness 
and  leave  no  sting.  But  this  was  no  sham  battle! 

He  wandered  on.  And,  senses  blurred  by  too 
many  impressions — or,  perhaps,  instinct  groping 
deeper — he  began  to  feel,  not  the  presence  of  many 
men,  but  a  monstrous  indivisible  entity — the  driv- 
ing master,  the  city  itself! — with  many  tentacles 
out  to  drag  down  the  unwary,  ruthlessly  crushing 
the  laggard  weakling  under  its  heavy  tread ;  the  roar 
that  rang  in  his  ears  was  but  its  sinister  menacing 
voice.  He  could  not  translate  what  he  saw  into 
terms  of  his  dreamed  conquest. 

He  caught  the  pace  of  the  shifting  crowd. 

Full  darkness  fell.  He  paused  under  a  fiery  sign, 
The  Seneca.  Through  a  great  plate-glass  window 
he  saw  a  gaudy  red-and-gold  interior  broken  by 
many  columns  that  to  the  inexpert  eye  somewhat  re- 
sembled marble.  Uniformed  pages  skurried  to  and 
fro.  Well-dressed  men  lounged  in  easy  chairs  or 
sauntered  leisurely  about.  Many  lights  burned 
brilliantly.  He  looked  within  longingly. 

While  he  debated  whether  or  not  to  enter  this  ex- 
pensive-looking hostelry,  a  porter  swooped  upon 
him  and  snatched  from  his  hands  the  ancient  carpet- 
bag that  held  his  slender  wardrobe. 

"This  way,  suhT 


40    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

He  hesitated  no  longer;  he  had  need  for  some 
abiding-place,  some  fixed  spot  that  should  restore 
his  sense  of  stability.  He  followed  the  porter  to  the 
desk,  painfully  conscious  of  the  figure  he  cut,  un- 
couth, out  of  place.  A  clerk  of  lofty  mien  placed  an 
open  register  before  him. 

"Write  your  name  here." 

Mark  wrote  it. 

"And  your  town." 

Mark  hesitated — and  then,  with  a  dogged  lower- 
ing of  his  head,  firmly  wrote  the  name  of  that  city. 

But  after  the  shock  even  of  April  waters  a  mo- 
ment of  reaction  comes  to  the  healthy,  when  the 
blood  leaps  and  the  tissues  glow. 

In  the  dining-room  that  night  many  smiles  were 
cast  at  the  raw  country  youth.  He  did  not  regard 
himself  as  a  subject  for  mirth.  As  he  attacked  the 
strange  viands  the  waiter  set  before  him,  a  little  of 
his  self-confidence  returned.  The  vivid  sense  of  a 
cruel  overpowering  entity  faded.  Homesickness 
for  Bethel,  the  refuge,  subsided.  To  be  a  wanderer 
in  the  crowded  street  was  one  thing;  to  sit  at  this 
luxurious  repast — his  standards  of  luxury  may  have 
been  somewhat  crude — was  quite  another.  He  be- 
gan to  think  comfortably  of  the  fat  leathern  pocket- 
book  now  reposing  in  the  hotel  safe.  By  so  much 
at  least  he  was  armored  against  the  rapacious  mon- 
ster that  stalked  the  weak  and  unwary;  more,  he 
shrewdly  guessed,  than  most  of  those  on  the  street 
could  boast.  And  perhaps,  after  all,  this  monster 
might  be  tamed  to  service. 


THE   MASTERS  41 

He  began  to  take  in  details  of  the  novel  scene 
around  him.  The  big  room  with  its  shaded  lights 
and  lively  diners,  the  hum  of  many  voices  accented 
by  an  occasional  tinkle  of  woman's  laughter,  the 
strains  from  the  orchestra — whose  shortcomings  he 
was  not  competent  to  detect — at  once  soothed  him 
and  stimulated  his  depressed  fancy.  He  discovered 
a  taste  for  this  sort  of  thing,  which  amused  but  in 
nowise  alarmed  him.  The  waiter  called  him  "sir"; 
never  before  had  he  received  this  badge  of  supe- 
riority. That,  too,  he  liked. 

His  ears  strained  to  catch  the  remarks  that  floated 
to  him  from  the  neighboring  tables.  It  was  a 
strange  tongue  he  heard,  lightly  dismissing  topics 
that  would  have  busied  the  gossips  of  Bethel  for  a 
moon.  There  was  a  young  man  who  wore  diamonds 
and  talked  in  a  loud  and  impressive  fashion. 

"...  Elizabeth,  I  see,  broke  the  record 
again."  (Elizabeth,  it  developed,  was  not  a  race 
horse,  but  one  of  the  Quinby  Steel  Company's  blast 
furnaces).  "Yes, sir!  More'n  forty  thousand  tons. 
Henley  says — I  think  so  myself — we're  going  to 
have  the  biggest  steel  year  yet.  — No-o,  I  don't  just 
exactly  know  him,  but  I  know  people  that  do. 
— And  Tom  Henley's  going  to  be  the  biggest  steel 
man  in  the  business — gets  his  fifty  thousand  a  year 
already.  .  .  .  MacGregor  and  Quinby?  Oh, 
they're  the  richest.  They  let  the  others  make  the 
steel  while  they  make  the  money.  See?  Ha!  ha! 
.  .  .  Tom  Henley's  the  brains  of  the  Quinby 
crowd.  And  he's  the  damnedest  speculator.  .  .  , 


Worth  his  half  million,  they  say,  and  ain't  over 
thirty-five.  .  .  ." 

And  this  was  the  city  from  another  angle.  Tom 
Henley,  evidently,  had  the  monster  well  in  hand. 

The  name  had  a  familiar  ring.  Mark  drew  from 
his  pocket  a  letter  Richard  Courtney  had  given  him 
that  morning.  Upon  it  was  inscribed,  "To  Thomas 
Henley,  Esquire." 

"He  may  be  willing  to  help  you  find  work," 
Courtney  had  said,  "if  he  remembers  me." 

Mark  had  accepted  it  carelessly,  with  no  intention 
of  using  it.  He  asked  no  favors;  he  felt  no  need  of 
the  crutch  of  another  man's  help.  But  that  was  in 
the  morning. 

Now  he  regarded  the  letter  thoughtfully.  He  won- 
dered what  was  in  it.  After  a  moment's  hesitation 
he  opened — it  was  unsealed — and  read  it. 

"My  dear  Henley,"  the  letter  ran,  "I  am 
sending  you  one  who  is  the  work  of  my  hands. 
He  is  a  young  man  of  parts,  'good  friends/  as  \ve 
say  up  here  in  Bethel,  'with  work'.  Also  he  'has 
a  nose  for  money'.  They  are  qualities  for  which 
you,  perhaps,  can  help  him  find  a  market.  ...  I 
say  he  is  my  handiwork;  but  he  is  an  unfinished 
product.  What,  I  wonder,  will  the  new  life  that 
succeeds  me  as  his  mentor  make  of  him?  Perhaps 
I  should  let  him  strike  out  for  himself  and  learn  at 
once  the  ugly  cruelty  of  the  struggle  that  now  seems 
to  him  so  glorious.  But  we  oldsters  have  the  habit 
of  helping  youth  to  the  sugar-plums  of  which  we 
have  learned  the  after-taste.  .  .  .  And  this  intro- 
duction is  the  last  thing  I  can  do  for  a  young  man 
who  means  much  to  me." 


THE    MASTERS  43 

After  many  minutes'  study  Mark  came  to  his  de- 
cision. He  would  present  himself  and  the  letter  to 
Thomas  Henley.  And  since  time  seemed  an  asset 
not  lightly  to  be  squandered,  he  would  do  it  that 
very  night.  He  rose  from  his  dinner. 

"Where,"  he  inquired  of  the  supercilious  clerk, 
"does  Thomas  Henley  live?  I  must  see  him  to- 
night." 

"You  mean  the  Thomas  Henley?"  Even  Mark 
could  see  a  melting  in  the  clerk's  manner  at  the  men- 
tion of  the  magic  name. 

"Is  there  more  than  one?" 

The  clerk  laughed  as  at  a  clever  witticism. 
"You're  right.  Not  in  this  town.  You  go — "  Here 
followed  certain  directions.  "Can't  miss  it.  It's 
a  big  new  house — biggest  around  there.  He  docs 
things  on  a  big  scale." 

The  directions  brought  Mark  at  length  into  the 
heart  of  a  small  community  from  which  the  city  still 
kept  at  a  humble  distance.  Not  so  the  fog,  which 
was  no  respecter  even  of  gilded  colonies.  From  a 
tall  iron  fence  sloped  a  wide  sweeping  lawn  dotted 
at  exact  intervals  with  trees  and  shrubbery.  An:! 
in  its  center  loomed  a  great  shadowy  mass,  punc- 
tured by  many  windows  shooting  broad  luminous 
bars  into  the  fog.  It  was  the  castle  of  the  tamer. 
Mark  gaped  and  tried  to  compute  what  fraction  of 
Bethel  could  be  housed  under  its  roof. 

He  proceeded  with  a  boldness  proper  to  adventur- 
ers in  Eldorado,  past  the  waiting  carriages  that  lined 
the  graveled  driveway,  to  the  wide  veranda.  There 


44    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

he  halted.  From  within  came  the  strains  of  music 
and  a  gay  clamor  of  voices.  He  could  not  know  that 
on  this  night  the  tamer  gave  a  feast,  a  formal  dedi- 
cation of  the  new  castle  to  the  entertainment  of  his 
kind.  But  he  felt  the  hour  to  be  ill-suited  to  his 
purpose. 

Yet  it  was  effected. 

Curiosity  to  look  within  carried  him  to  a  window. 
To  his  wondering  gaze  unfolded  a  vista  of  Irish 
point  and  damask  satin,  carved  mahogany  and  mar- 
ble figures,  gilt-framed  pictures  and  silken  rugs.  A 
chandelier  of  a  thousand  crystals  let  no  detail  flour- 
ish unseen.  How  cheap  now  seemed  the  gaudy 
splendor  of  the  hotel  dining-room,  how  ignorant  the 
taste  of  him  who  had  admired ! 

And  amid  this  lavish  display  of  beauties  paraded 
a  bevy  of  creatures  seeming  to  his  excited  fancy  to 
have  stepped  out  of  Arabian  Nights.  You,  madame, 
who  remember  the  fashions  of  the  middle  eighties 
may  not  be  as  moved  as  he ;  your  sophisticated  eye 
may  discern,  in  some  trick  of  manner  or  contour 
of  hand,  evidence  that  for  these  ladies  the  day  of 
luxury  has  but  lately  dawned;  your  exquisite  and 
more  expensive  taste  may  carp  at  those  jewels  en- 
gaged in  a  duel  of  scintillation  with  the  glittering 
chandelier  as  out  of  place  upon  shoulders  and  fin- 
gers that  can  hardly  have  forgotten  the  burdens  and 
tasks  of  the  plebeian  household;  you  may  even  re- 
gret that  physical  culture  has  not  yet  come  to  check 
the  fattening  processes  of  gluttony.  But  bear  in 
mind  that  all  things  are  comparative ;  look  with  the 


THE   MASTERS  45 

eye  of  the  peeper  and  see,  not  a  room  "done"  by  a 
tasteless  hired  decorator,  nor  a  group  of  vulgar 
over-dressed  women,  but  a  trophy — a  trophy  in  an 
Homeric  struggle  that  makes  youth  drunk  with  the 
desire  of  conquest. 

"Unity,"  he  said,  "will  like  that."  There  spake 
the  sure  conviction  of  the  prophet. 

While  he  stood  there  a  troop  of  men,  garbed  in 
a  monotony  of  black  and  white,  marched  into  the 
room.  At  the  same  time  voices  came  from  another 
wing  of  the  veranda. 

And  then  he,  son  of  the  blacksmith  of  Bethel, 
became  a  spectator  at  the  birth  of  a  project  that  for 
a  brief  but  brilliant  period  was  to  move  the  world  to 
hosannas ! 

"Henley,"  said  the  first  voice,  deep,  yet  softly 
flowing  as  honey,  "I  have  come  to  the  time  of  life 
when  a  man  of  sense  puts  away  the  lusts  of  the 
flesh—" 

"Is  your  digestion  out  of  order  ?"  interrupted  the 
second,  sharper,  less  musical  and  with  a  sardonic 
quality  that  delighted  the  listener.  "I  noticed  you 
didn't  eat  much  to-night." 

"Ah !  It  is  more  than  stomach.  It  is  soul!"  the 
mellow  voice  flowed  on.  "My  labors  and  investments 
have  been  blessed  with  good  fortune.  So  I  am  now 
able  to  turn  my  energies  to  the  higher  duties,  to  do- 
ing large  things  for  humanity.  And  lately  my 
thoughts  have  dwelt  much  on — philanthropy  and 
paleontology." 

The  speaker,  like  Brutus,  paused  for  a  reply. 


46     THE   AMBITION    OF   MARK   TRUITT 

"Hmm !  Two  'p's',"  it  came.  "Quite  alliterative. 
Go  on." 

"Henley,  you  arc  the  first  to  whom  I  have  spoken 
of  my  purpose.  It  is  fixed.  In  what  nobler  work, 
what  more  fertile  philanthropy,  can  a  man  of  wealth 
engage  than  in  the  development  of  the  science  of 
paleontology?  Think,  Henley — to  add  to  human- 
ity's knowledge  of  the  extinct  life  that  came  before 
our  own !  It  is  a  labor  to  fire  the  imagination.  And 
that  is  my  purpose.  I  shall  build  and  endow  in  this 
city  the  most  complete  paleontological  institute  in 
the  world,  and  before  I  lay  aside  the  project,  a 
branch  institution  in  each  of  the  largest  cities  of  the 
nation."  The  voice  trembled  with  emotion. 

There  was  a  sound  as  of  two  hands  sharply  meet- 
ing. "Good !  I  see !  Let  the  Scotchman  look  to  his 
laurels!  MacGregor  may  build  his  libraries,  but 
Quinby  shall  have  his  paleontological  institutes!" 

Mark  wondered  at  the  patience  of  the  answer. 
"Ah!  You  are  pleased  to  jest.  But  the  project  is 
new  to  you.  And,"  sighingly,  "the  young  think  only 
of  wealth  and  power." 

"My  dear  Mr.  Quinby,"  the  other  purred,  "no 
man  in  his  senses  could  jest  at  paleontology. — What 
the  devil!" 

The  speakers  had  turned  the  corner  of  the  veran- 
da and  come  upon  the  eavesdropper.  Thus  for  the 
first  time  Mark  Truitt  looked  upon  the  two  men  in 
whose  legions  he  was  to  conquer. 

Who  has  not  in  fancy's  gallery  a  portrait  of 
Jeremiah  Quinby,  taken  from  the  prints  of  the  day 


THE   MASTERS  47 

when  his  star  swept  so  brilliant  through  the  sky? 
His  great  rival  and  pattern  in  beneficence  rejoices 
in  an  outward  likeness  to  the  popular  notion  of 
Santa  Claus;  Quinby  seems  philanthropy  in  the 
flesh.  The  lofty  brow  seems  to  shelter  a  very  fer- 
ment of  noble  projects.  The  grave  eyes  and  mouth 
speak  to  us  of  a  great  soul  anguished  by  the  sight  of 
suffering  humanity's  needs,  which  he  is  bravely, 
self-effacingly  seeking  to  relieve.  His  tall  form  is 
clothed  in  that  princely  manner  we  expect  from  giv- 
ers of  royal  gifts.  .  .  .  The  portrait  lingers  un- 
dimmed.  For,  though  it  came  to  an  untimely  pause, 
the  inspired  enterprise  that  night  divulged  was  not 
wholly  in  vain.  While  paleontology  lives,  so  long 
shall  the  fame  of  Quinby  endure,  proof  against  the 
thrusts  of  cheap  satirists  and  illustrated  by  many 
photographs. 

Photography  has  been  less  kind  to  Thomas  Hen- 
ley. No  philanthropy  has  claimed  him  as  its  apostle. 
And  then  he  was  a  less  promising  subject  for  the  art. 
His  body  was  squat  and  heavy;  his  face  was  bony 
and  ugly  and  arrogant,  often  still  further  marred  by 
a  cold  cynical  sneer.  A  lesser  man,  thus  presented, 
would  have  been  repulsive.  Yet  from  Henley  radi- 
ated a  tremendous  vitality  that  made  him  magnetic 
or  compelling  as  he  chose — the  dynamic  quality  that 
could  galvanize  a  man  or  a  regiment  to  the  mad 
effort  he  demanded.  After  the  first  glance  Mark 
looked  no  more  upon  Quinby;  he  understood  why 
the  philanthropist  had  so  meekly  swallowed  the  inso- 
lence. 


48    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

"This,"  he  thought,  "is  a  man." 

Henley  charged  upon  him,  gripping  his  arm. 

"What  the  devil,"  he  repeated,  "are  you  doing 
here?" 

"Looking  into  the  window." 

"What  are  you  doing  that  for?" 

"Because,"  Mark  answered  simply,  "I  never  saw 
anything  like  it  before." 

"Probably,"  the  philanthropist-to-be  suggested 
nervously,  backing  away,  "he  is  some  sneak  thief. 
Perhaps  you'd  better  hold  him  while  I  get  help." 

"Oh,  don't  be  frightened,"  Henley  replied  pro- 
tectively. "I  won't  let  him  bite  you." 

The  sardonic  note  was  again  uppermost.  Mark, 
looking  down  at  Henley — he  had  the  advantage  of 
his  captor  by  half  a  head — grinned  involuntarily, 
and  was  himself  led  into  impudence. 

"No,  I  won't  bite  you,  Mr.  Quinby." 

Quinby  took  another  step  backward,  his  nervous- 
ness becoming  more  manifest.  "He  knows  my 
name !  He  may  be  some  crank  who — " 

"My  dear  sir!"  This  time  there  was  a  touch  of 
impatience  in  the  words.  "Gentlemen  of  your  impor- 
tance must  expect  their  names  to  become  household 
words.  If  you'll  feel  easier,  step  inside  while  I  at- 
tend to  this  Peeping  Tom." 

The  philanthropist,  still  insensible — it  seemed — 
to  the  thinly  veiled  insolence,  accepted  the  sugges- 
tion. 

"Now  then,"  Henley  demanded  sharply,  "what  do 
you  want  here?  You  don't  look  like  a.  sneak  thief." 


THE    MASTERS  49 

"I  brought  a  letter  to  you." 

"Who  from?" 

"Doctor  Richard  Courtney." 

"Who's  he?" 

"He's  our  preacher  in  Bethel." 

"Bethel?    Elucidate  Bethel." 

Mark  defined  the  village  geographically. 

"Humph!    Let  me  see  the  letter." 

Mark  gave  the  missive  to  him,  and  Henley,  open- 
ing it,  began  the  perusal. 

"Hmm!  'Young  man  of  parts' — 'good  friends 
with  work' — 'nose  for  money' — hmm !"  He  looked 
up  suddenly,  fixing  a  keen  scrutiny  upon  Mark. 
"What  is  your  definition  of  sugar-plums?" 

Mark's  grin  was  a  confession.    "I'd  like  some." 

"Humph !  So  you've  read  it.  How  many  letters 
like  this  do  you  suppose  I  get  every  day  ?" 

"A  good  many,  I  expect." 

"Dozens !"  Henley  snapped.  "Dozens !  Enough, 
if  I  gave  'em  all  jobs,  to  cover  the  Quinby  mills 
three  deep  with  incompetents  in  a  year." 

He  completed  the  perusal  of  the  letter. 

"Well,"  he  sneered,  "you  who  peep  through  win- 
dows and  read  other  people's  letters,  I  suppose  as 
a  young  man  of  parts  you  want  a  nice  fat  job  you're 
not  fit  to  fill  ?  They  all  want  that." 

Suddenly  Mark  felt  anger,  hot  anger,  at  this  ar- 
rogant young  man,  not  so  many  years  his  senior, 
who  baited  philanthropists  with  as  faint  scrupling 
as  he  rough-handled  the  seeker  of  work.  Henley 
saw  him  stiffen. 


50    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

"No,  I  don't,"  Mark  cried  hotly.  "I  only  want  a 
chance  to  work.  A  chance  to  show  what  I'm  good 
for." 

"If  that's  all  you  want — what  are  you  good  for?" 

"I'm  a  blacksmith,  but  I  can  do  anything." 

"Humph !  We  can  use  fellows  who  can  do  any- 
thing— to  swing  pick  and  shovel.  Do  you  know 
where  we're  building  our  new  plant  ?" 

"I  can  find  out" 

"Go  to  the  labor  boss  and  tell  him  to  give  you  a 
job  with  the  construction  gang.  If  you're  good  for 
anything,  you  can  work  up  the  way  I — no,  not  the 
way  I  did,  but  the  way  you'll  have  to  if  you  want 
to  get  along  where  I'm  running  things." 

"All  right,"  Mark  said  shortly  and  turned  on 
his  heel. 

"Hold  on,  there!" 

Mark  stopped.  Henley  carelessly  tore  the  letter 
into  bits. 

"It  won't  be  a  plum,  I  warn  you.  But  if  you've 
been  properly  taught,"  with  an  ironic  chuckle,  "you 
know,  of  course,  that  such  fruit  is  only  for  the  very, 
very  deserving — and  after  they've  proved  them- 
selves. As  for  your  Doctor  Richard  Courtney,  I 
have  no  present  recollection  of  him.  So  you'd  better 
look  elsewhere  for  a  nice  soft  job.  Unless,"  he 
added  with  another  sneer,  "you  really  think  there's 
something  in  you?" 

The  gratuitous  contempt  stung  into  life  some- 
thing of  which  Mark  never  had  known  the  need — 
the  fighting  spirit,  which  not  all  dreamers  possess. 


THE    MASTERS  51 

He  glared.  He  remembered  afterward  that  he  had 
not  been  the  least  in  awe  or  afraid  of  the  Napoleonic 
young  man  who  bestowed  insult  so  indiscriminately, 
whose  arrogance  and  insolence  seemed  but  the  same 
voice  that  spoke  in  the  roar  of  the  street.  Henley, 
too,  saw ;  also  he  perceived  that  he  was  in  imminent 
danger  of  a  thrashing.  Amused  interest  flickered 
across  his  face. 

"Well  ?"    This  was  not  a  sneer. 

After  a  little  the  answer  came. 

"I  want  that  job." 

Mark  went  out  into  the  fog. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE    SERVICE   OF   THE   STRONG 

TO  THE  nation  had  come  a  rare  passion  for 
building.  It  was  tearing  down  its  old  barns, 
to  build  anew,  bigger  and  stronger.  There  were 
cities  to  be  raised  in  the  deserts;  and  they  must  be 
made  stanch  and  lasting.  Wildernesses  were  to  be 
tilled  and  taught  to  bring  forth  their  fruits ;  and  the 
pioneer  and  his  harvest  must  be  carried,  not  by 
crawling  conestoga  and  mule-train,  but  by  the  power 
of  steam.  Men  would  go  down  to  the  sea  no  longer 
in  ships  of  wood,  but  in  floating  palaces  that  mocked 
the  storm.  Those  who  made  war  were  to  be  shel- 
tered behind  impenetrable  ramparts  and,  again, 
equipped  with  engines  and  missiles  before  which 
stoutest  defenses  crumbled.  Toilers  on  land  and 
sea  must  find  in  their  hands  new  weapons,  hard  and 
keen  and  sure,  to  bring  nature,  her  forces  and  treas- 
ures, into  bondage  and  service. 

Therefore,  steel! 

And,  therefore,  the  army  of  steel  workers.  They 
came  from  many  lands,  Saxon  and  Celt,  Latin  and 
Slav.  But  only  the  strong — here  was  no  place  for 
the  weak  or  the  uncertain.  Death  lay  in  wait  in  a 
thousand  forms  and  it  took  its  toll  even  of  the 
strong.  More  terrible  still  was  the  need  for  fierce 

52 


THE   SERVICE   OF   THE   STRONG    53 

unrelaxing  effort  to  satisfy  the  world's  hunger  for 
steel.  It  made  young  men  old,  quickly  crushed  and 
threw  aside  all  save  those  who  had  endurance  of 
soul  as  well  as  of  body.  These  survivors  were  apt 
to  forget  that  a  natural  law,  and  not  they,  had  called 
the  vast  industry  into  being,  and  in  the  end  their 
generals  went  mad  with  the  lust  of  a  baser  metal. 
But  they  bred  a  few  that  were  really  giants,  gave 
civilization  an  impetus  that  has  not  died,  and  set  a 
new  ideal  of  productivity. 

A  strong  west  wind  had  sprung  up  during  the 
night  and  the  sun  shone  clear  on  the  line  of  that 
day's  recruits.  One  by  one  they  passed  before  a 
keen-eyed  youth — only  the  young  officered  this  army 
— who,  after  one  glance,  accepted  or  rejected.  The 
enlisted  were  turned  over  to  the  timekeeper,  who 
gave  them  numbered  cards  and  assigned  them  to 
various  waiting  squads. 

A  big  Swede,  a  wiry  little  French-Canadian  and  a 
slow-moving  Pole  were  passed.  Then  came  one 
whose  shabby  clothes  spoke  of  another  sort  of  toil 
and  whose  face  showed  the  marks  of  prolonged  in- 
toxication. 

"Can't  use  you,"  snapped  the  boss. 

"But,  mister,  I'm  broke  and — " 

"No  place  to  work  off  jags.    Step  out — next!" 

The  man  turned  dejectedly  away.  His  place  was 
taken  by  an  Italian  boy.* 

"Speak  English?" 

The  Italian  jabbered  unintelligibly.  The  boss 
pointed  toward  the  rejected  drunk. 


54    THE  AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

"Step  out!"  He  interpreted  the  command  by  a 
shove  that  sent  the  immigrant  reeling  out  of  the  line. 
He  nodded  curtly  to  the  next  applicant.  "All  right ! 
Get  your  card." 

And  this  recruit  was  he  who  had  accepted  Thomas 
Henley's  challenge.  The  latter  had  already  forgot- 
ten the  incident,  but  Mark  was  still  hot  with  the  de- 
termination to  prove  his  mettle  to  the  tamer. 

He  gave  his  name  to  the  time-clerk  and  received 
his  card,  also  the  command,  "Go  with  Houlahan's 
gang." 

Thus,  he  reflected,  he  had  taken  the  first  step  in 
his  campaign  of  conquest — he  was  'a  private  in 
Houlahan's  squad.  To  himself  he  emphasized  the 
fact  that  he  had  got  so  far  without  Henley's  aid, 
although — for  reasons  he  had  not  time  to  analyze — 
he  did  not  regret  the  encounter  with  the  tamer. 

"Git  a  move  on!"  thundered  a  voice  in  his  ear. 
"D'ye  think  yez  arre  a  prathy  shtuck  in  th'  grround  ? 
Marrch !"  It  was  the  voice  of  Houlahan. 

Mark  marched.  He  had  a  last  view  of  the  rejected 
drunk  and  immigrant  staring  wistfully  at  the  de- 
parting gangs. 

Corporal  Houlahan  had  no  romantic  conception 
of  his  duties,  and  his  tyranny  was  of  a  sort  to  give 
his  underlings  the  realistic  point  of  view.  The 
Alpha  and  Omega  of  his  theory  of  bossing  were  to 
curse  and  threaten  constantly;  thus  a  deadly  fear  of 
him  should  be  instilled  and  prompt  obedience  and 
faithful  work  insured.  It  is  a  simple  theory  and 
a  popular,  but  unfortunately  fallible;  which,  per- 


THE   SERVICE   OF   THE   STRONG    55 

haps,  explains  Corporal  Houlahan's  brief  sojourn 
in  these  pages. 

"Phwat  th'  hell  arre  yez  thryin'  t'  do?"  This  to 
Mark,  who,  with  some  vague  notion  of  proving  his 
mettle  at  once,  was  plying  his  shovel  almost  fren- 
ziedly.  "D'ye  think  yez  arre  th'  whole  gang?  Ye 
got  t'  worruk  all  day,  d'ye  moind !" 

But  this,  even  if  criticism  for  criticism's  sake,  was 
wise  counsel,  and  Mark,  strangling  a  rising  desire 
to  assault  his  commander,  slackened  his  pace. 

Less  intelligent  was  the  charge  to  the  Swede, 
Mark's  immediate  neighbor. 

"Here,  ye  Oly— " 

"Ay  bane  Johann." 

"Ye're  Moike,  'f  Oi  say  ut,"  bellowed  Houlahan. 
He  enlarged  upon  Johann's  dishonorable  pedigree. 
"Dig  in!" 

The  Swede,  the  best  worker  in  the  gang,  began  to 
shovel  in  a  nervous  haste  that  added  nothing  to  his 
efficiency.  Mark  saw  the  red  creep  into  the  fair 
skin. 

"Shtir  it  up,  ye  Frinch  loafer!"  the  corporal  ad- 
dressed the  next  in  line.  "We're  runnin'  no  barber 
shop  here.  F'r  two  cints  Oi'd  bate  some  worruk 
into  yez."  But  as  well  seek  to  expurgate  the  works 
of  Monsieur  de  Maupassant  as  the  comments  of 
Corporal  Houlahan! 

This  was  not  the  varied  leisurely  toil  of  the  coun- 
try smithy,  but  a  steady  monotonous  grind — thrust 
and  lift,  thrust  and  lift,  the  livelong  day — calling 
into  play  only  one  set  of  muscles,  with  no  flying 


56    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

sparks  or  shaping  metal  to  stimulate  the  artist's 
fancy.  An  unwonted  ache  began  to  creep  into  the 
sinews  of  our  adventurer.  And  from  behind,  more 
wearisome  than  the  toil,  came  always  the  harassing 
profane  criticism  of  the  insatiable  Houlahan. 

It  was  a  tired  and  sadly  fretted  gang  the  noon 
whistle  relieved.  Mark  stretched  himself  out  on 
the  ground,  closing  his  eyes  on  the  dinner  pails  his 
comrades  produced;  in  his  eagerness  to  be  enlisted 
he  had  not  thought  of  his  midday  meal,  and  he  was 
very  hungry. 

He  felt  a  hand  on  his  shoulder  and  opened  his 
eyes.  The  Frenchman  and  the  Swede  sat  beside 
him. 

"M'sieu  ees  'ongree,  eh?"  The  Frenchman  care- 
fully broke  a  loaf  of  brown  bread — all  his  meal—- 
in the  middle  and  proffered  Mark  one-half. 

"Un'  t'irsty  ?"  The  Swede  held  out  a  bottle  filled 
with  cold  coffee. 

Mark  looked  covetously  at  the  gifts,  but  he  shook 
his  head. 

"M'sieu  'ate  dat  dam'  'Oula'an?"  the  Frenchman 
inquired. 

"I  do,"  Mark  responded  with  fervor. 

"Dat  mak'  fr'en's  out  of  us,  eh?    Eat,  m'sieu." 

Hunger  overcome  scruples.  Mark  ate  the  bread 
and  drank  of  the  coffee. 

"Much  obliged.  I  was  hungry.  You're  all 
right — "  He  paused  inquiringly. 

"Marcel  Masquelier,"  the  Frenchman  completed 
the  sentence. 


"Johann  Johannsen,"  rolled  from  the  region  of 
the  Swede's  stomach. 

Mark  identified  himself. 

"Dat  ver'  good  name. — Br-r-r!"  The  exclama- 
tion was  for  the  corporal,  who,  with  the  labor  boss, 
approached.  The  latter  glanced  over  the  excava- 
tion. 

"How  many  loads  have  you  taken  out  ?" 

"Thirty-nine,  sor." 

"Only  thirty-nine?"  the  boss  rejoined  sharply. 
"It  ought  to  be  fifty." 

"The  dom'd  loafers  won't  worruk,"  Houlahan  de- 
fended himself  angrily. 

The  boss  cast  his  swift  appraising  glance  over  the 
resting  groups. 

"It's  a  good  gang,"  he  said  shortly.  "And  it's 
your  business  to  make  'em  work."  He  passed  on. 

"We'll  get  it  now,"  Mark  muttered.  "That  Irish 
bully'll  never  know  how  to  get  work  out  of  men. 
I'd  like  to  tell  the  boss  so." 

Johann's  face  began  to  work.  "Ay  skoll  kill  Mis- 
ter Houlahan,"  came  his  slow  growl,  "mebbe  so." 

"Mebbe  so  not."  Marcel  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
"One  mus'  leeve.  An'  one  mus'  work.  Eh?" 

"Steady,  Johann!"  counseled  Mark.  "Don't  let 
him  rattle  you." 

"You  'ear,  Jo'ann?"  Marcel  added  earnestly.  "I 
'ave  respec'  for  w'at  my  fr'en',  M'sieu  Mark  Truitt, 
say." 

They  "got  it",  indeed,  that  afternoon.  The  Irish- 
man, under  the  sting  of  his  boss'  reproof,  raged  and 


58    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK   TRUITT 

cursed  endlessly  in  the  effort  to  get  more  work  out 
of  his  men.  The  gang,  irritable  and  sullen,  worked 
erratically,  with  feverish  spurts  that  brought  in- 
evitable reaction;  the  men  became  demoralized,  in- 
terfered with  one  another. 

Mark,  some  whim  of  the  boss  making  him  a  spe- 
cial target  for  the  fusillade  of  profanity,  was  hard 
put  to  keep  his  temper  in  leash ;  he  was  harder  put 
to  restrain  the  mutinous  Swede,  who  itched  with 
a  desire  for  assassination.  Toward  the  end  of  the 
day  even  the  philosophic  Marcel  grew  ill-natured 
and  snarling.  Somehow  Mark  felt  their  hospitality 
of  the  noon  hour  had  put  upon  him  a  responsibility 
for  them,  though  they  were  his  seniors  by  at  least 
ten  years. 

"One  must  live,  you  know,"  he  reminded  Marcel. 
"And  one  must  work." 

"One  mus'  not  be  treat'  like  a  dog,  m'sieu." 
Marcel  ripped  out  a  long  French  oath.  "Jo'ann, 
you  'ave  my  consen'  to  keel  dat  'Oula'an." 

Suddenly  the  Swede  dropped  his  shovel.  "Ay 
bane  by  endt.  Ja!" 

Johann  was  too  slow  in  his  mental  processes  to 
be  shamed  into  patience. 

"Pick  up  that  shovel  and  get  to  work,"  Mark 
commanded  sharply. 

The  Swede  blinked  stupidly  for  a  moment,  then 
slowly  obeyed. 

"You  our  boss,  heinf"  Marcel  sneered. 

"No,  Marcel,  since  noon — your  friend,"  Mark  re- 
sponded. 


,-'    THE   SERVICE   OF   THE   STRONG    59 

Marcel,  too,  stared  and  then,  with  a  gesture  of 
contrition,  bent  himself  doggedly  to  his  task. 

Mark  thought  he  heard  a  chuckle.  He  looked  up 
to  meet  the  eyes  of  the  tamer.  As  to  the  chuckle, 
he  may  have  been  mistaken;  in  the  keen  imper- 
sonal glance  was  no  sign  of  recognition.  Henley, 
with  the  labor  boss,  departed  on  his  tour  of  inspec- 
tion. Mark  gave  himself  anew  to  his  work,  with  a 
sudden  inner  expansion.  Not  Henley,  but  the  sub- 
missiveness  of  his  malcontent  "friends",  was  the 
cause  of  that  expansion. 

During  the  period  of  obscurity  in  the  ranks  the 
outward  life  of  the  great  differs  little  from  that  of 
any  other  private.  Day  after  day  Mark  reported 
for  the  long  dull  grind.  Night  after  night  he  re- 
turned to  the  dingy  little  room  he  rented  from  Mar- 
vel and  to  the  frugal  supper  Suzon  had  prepared. 
And  out  of  his  Saturady  night  pay  envelope,  after 
the  week's  expenses  had  been  paid,  always  remained 
a  small  balance.  Let  this  fact,  since  one  taste  had 
discovered  an  appetite  for  luxury,  be  set  down  to 
his  credit.  But  let  no  one  make  haste  to  pronounce 
him  a  model  young  man.  Clamoring  desire  he  stilled 
with  the  promise  that  for  every  self-denial  now 
should  be  an  indulgence — "then". 

There  can  be,  however,  no  doubt  that  great  com' 
manders  are  made  while  in  the  ranks.  Mark,  fof 
example,  learned  that  there  are  a  right  method  and 
a  wrong  of  doing  even  the  simple  task  of  plying  a 
shovel;  that  there  is  a  fashion  of  handling  even  so 
common  an  animal  as  the  day-laborer  which  brings 


60     THE   AMBITION    OF    MARK  TRUITT 

out  his  highest  efficiency.  He  found,  moreover,  that 
he  had  the  gift — granted  as  often  to  the  false  and 
the  foolish  as  to  the  true  and  the  wise — of  popular- 
ity. Men  liked  him;  they  laughed  at  his  jokes;  on 
a  day's  acquaintance  they  confided  to  him  their 
troubles — squalid  tragedies  they  were,  alas !  only  too 
often.  Marcel  always  called  him  "m'sieu",  a  dis- 
tinction he  accorded  not  even  to  Blair,  the  labor 
boss. 

At  first  Mark  did  not  look  upon  his  gift  as  an 
asset.  There  were  incidents  to  which  a  Boswell 
would  give  much  space :  here  the  encouragement  of 
a  ready  sympathy  extended,  there  the  secret  impul- 
sive bestowal  of  the  week's  savings,  again  a  weary 
night  spent  nursing  a  sick  Italian.  More  than  once, 
when  Houlahan  raged,  Mark's  steadying  whisper 
saved  a  comrade  from  flat  mutiny  and  discharge. 
A  Boswell  would  perhaps  not  disclose  the  fact  that 
when  he  saw  in  his  gift  a  talent  capable  of  profitable 
investment,  he  began  diligently  to  cultivate  it.  We 
may  not  be  captious;  Scriptural  approval  may  be 
cited  for  the  shrewd  custodian  of  talents. 

There  was,  however,  no  prophetic  anticipation  of 
the  fact. 

One  chill  foggy  evening,  as  the  whistle  blew,  he 
looked  about  him  and  realized  that  the  excavation 
for  the  new  mill  was  completed. 

"Why,  we're  through !"  he  muttered. 

Johann  stared  stupidly. 

"Mebby  dat  Meestair  Blair  'e  geev  us  anudder 
job,  you  t'ink  so,  eh?"  ventured  Marcel  hopefully. 


THE    SERVICE   OF   THE    STRONG    61 

"No.  We're  the  rottenest  gang  on  the  work. 
It's  Houlahan's  fault.  And  I  haven't  had  my 
chance.  Damn  him !" 

"Damn!"  The  impending  calamity  was  becom- 
ing clear  to  Johann. 

"M'sieu  'as  los'  'ees  chance.  Dat  ver'  bad. 
Jo'ann  an'  me,  we  'ave  los'  a  job,"  Marcel  sighed. 

But  the  fear  was  not  justified.  At  the  tool-shed 
they  were  ordered  to  report  next  morning  a  half 
hour  earlier  than  usual.  And  : 

"Truitt,"  said  the  time-clerk,  "the  boss  wants  to 
see  you." 

Mark  made  his  way  to  the  rude  shanty  that  was 
Blair's  office. 

"Truitt,"  the  latter  demanded,  "what's  the  matter 
with  Houlahan's  gang?" 

"Too  much  bullying,"  Mark  answered  directly. 

"I  thought  so.    Report  to-morrow  morning." 

"Yes,  sir.    Of  course." 

"I'm  going  to  put  your  gang  on  the  new  coke 
oven  beds.  It's  a  rush  job.  I  give  you  three  weeks 
for  it" 

"Give  me." 

"Yes.    I'm  putting  you  in  charge  of  the  gang." 

For  an  instant  Mark  stared  foolishly.  Then  he 
grinned.  "Would  you  mind  saying  that  again  ?" 

Blair  complied.  "Look  here,"  he  added  boyishly, 
"I'm  taking  a  chance  on  you,  because  you  look  and 
talk  intelligent.  Are  you?" 

Mark  admitted  it. 

"Then  prove  it.    I  want  to  make  a  record  on  this 


62    THE  AMBITION   OF  MARK  TRUITT 

job  and  so  you've  got  to.  Houlahan,"  Blair  added, 
"didn't — and  he  loses  his  job.  See?" 

Mark  saw. 

It  is  not  easy  to  conceive  Houlahan,  late  corporal 
in  the  forces  of  Quinby,  as  a  proper  subject  for 
pathos.  Yet  so  it  is  that  even  foul-mouthed  Irish 
bullies  may  have  their  responsibilities — to  wit,  fam- 
ilies of  generous  number — to  bind  them,  though  un- 
willing, to  the  service.  In  the  morning  Houlahan, 
too,  reported,  happily  unaware  of  a  new  order  of 
things. 

"Houlahan,"  Blair  announced  casually,  "Truitt 
will  take  your  gang  to-day." 

Houlahan  glared  malevolently  at  Mark.  Then 
into  the  red  brutish  face  came  the  look  of  dread 
Marcel  and  Johann  had  worn  for  a  little  the  even- 
ing before,  a  look  Mark  was  to  see  often  upon  the 
faces  of  weaklings  and  incompetents  weeded  out  of 
this  Titan's  service. 

"An'  where'HOigo?" 

"You  can  take  Truitt's  old  place — or  quit,"  said 
Blair  curtly. 

"My  God!" 

There  was  no  resistance.  As  if  dazed,  the  Irish- 
man shouldered  his  pick  and  shovel  and  with  the 
gang  followed  Blair  and  Mark  to  the  new  job. 

You  have  seen  a  restive  horse  become  docile  and 
eager  when  a  master  takes  the  reins.  So  it  was 
with  Houlahan's,  now  Truitt's,  gang.  They  were, 
since  they  had  survived  the  weeks  of  bullying,  no 


THE   SERVICE   OF   THE   STRONG    63 

mean  type;  and  they  responded  gratefully  to  the 
changed  leadership.  Where  they  had  been  sullen 
and  resentful,  they  now  became  willing  and 
promptly  obedient.  Steady  persistency  succeeded 
spurt  and  reaction,  with  a  consequent  economy  of 
energy  and  increase  of  efficiency.  As  the  day  ad- 
vanced, the  pace,  instead  of  slackening  as  under 
Houlahan's  command,  grew  faster;  the  last  hour's 
record  was  the  best  of  all. 

And  this  was  accomplished,  not  by  the  encourag- 
ing word  or  his  quiet  fashion  of  command  or  sys- 
tematic division  of  labor,  nor  yet  by  all  these  com- 
bined, though  to  them  in  his  ignorance  he  gave  the 
credit;  but  by  a  process  that  can  not  be  defined  or 
acquired.  He  was  able  to  infuse  into  his  men  a 
little  of  his  own  spirit,  to  stimulate  their  imagina- 
tions; they  attacked  their  work  as  an  enemy  that 
must  be  destroyed,  they  felt  with  him  an  imperative 
need  for  achievement.  It  was  part  of  his  gift. 

Perhaps  the  episode  in  which  Houlahan  figures 
added  not  a  little  to  their  zeal. 

Mark's  nice  calculation,  confronted  by  his  prede- 
cessor, broke  down.  The  memory  of  insult  rankled ; 
the  temptation  to  take  vengeance  was  too  strong. 
Houlahan  himself,  sullen  and  intentionally  slow, 
gave  him  the  excuse. 

Upon  the  poor  Irishman  rained  a  succession  of 
barbed  jests,  varied  by  occasional  outbursts  in  the 
true  Houlahan  style.  Houlahan,  no  doubt,  had 
much  cause  for  resentment.  He  stood  it,  thinking 


64     THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK   TRUITT 

of  his  precious  job,  for  more  than  two  hours  and 
then,  badgered  beyond  endurance,  threw  down  his 
shovel  and  stalked  away. 

"Stay  on  the  job,"  Mark  ordered  sharply. 

"Oi'll  git  me  toime,"  Houlahan  snarled  back  over 
his  shoulder,  "an'  thin  Oi'll  come  back  an'  bate  yez 
into  a  powdher,  ye — " 

"Why  wait?    You  might— forget." 

The  taunt  stung  the  Irishman  into  a  frenzy.  He 
whirled  and  rushed  at  his  persecutor.  Mark  caught 
up  a  pick-handle  and  waited.  Marcel  and  Johann 
quietly  took  their  positions  beside  him. 

"Keep  out  of  this,"  he  ordered  them. 

Marcel  and  Johann  stood  fast.  But  it  was  not 
their  presence  that  saved  their  new  boss.  More  than 
an  arm's  length  away,  the  maddened  Houlahan 
stopped,  glaring  and  panting  with  rage.  Mark,  his 
teeth  showing  in  an  ugly  smile,  met  the  glare  stead- 
ily. While  many  seconds  passed,  that  duel  of  eyes 
continued.  The  men,  forgetting  work,  looked  on 
fascinated. 

There  was  no  fight.  Suddenly  Houlahan  caught 
the  cruel  message  that  leaped  from  Mark's  eyes. 
His  glance  wavered  to  the  poised  club,  his  arms 
fell.  Johann  and  Marcel  resumed  their  shovels. 

"Get  back  to  work,"  Mark  commanded. 

"Oi  can't  shtand  ut."  Tears,  most  ludicrously, 
shone  in  Houlahan's  eyes. 

"Work  like  a  man,"  Mark  answered  contemptu- 
ously, "and  I'll  let  you  alone." 
Houlahan  went  back  to  work. 


THE    SERVICE   OF   THE    STRONG    65 

Mark,  the  ugly  savage  smile  continuing,  looked 
pitilessly  upon  his  cowed  opponent.  The  strong 
wine  of  mastery  mounted  to  his  brain. 

Often  he  went  home  to  his  lodging  by  way  of  the 
mills.  Then  he  began  to  spend  his  evenings  study- 
ing them,  sometimes  in  company  with  Blair,  who 
when  the  day's  work  was  done  sunk  his  rank  in  a 
frank  liking  for  his  new  lieutenant. 

At  first  Mark  saw  only  a  vast  spectacular  chaos; 
a  Brobdingnagian  ferment  of  unordered  and  unre- 
lated enginery  and  consuming  fires.  No  guiding 
hand  appeared,  no  purpose  was  felt.  Some  awful 
mischance  that  must  bring  the  whole  fabric  crashing 
to  earth  seemed  always  to  impend.  It  was  unbeliev- 
able that  this  creation  had  been  brought  forth  from 
the  mind  and  by  the  hand  of  man. 

Gradually  to  his  accustomed  eye  the  chaos  re- 
solved itself  into  a  system — rather,  a  marvelous  sys- 
tem of  systems  that  worked  with  a  single  purpose, 
each  unit  fitting  precisely  into  the  ordered  whole. 

In  a  huge  furnace,  coal — already  purified  by  fire 
in  ovens  that  glowed  through  the  night  like  red  tor- 
tured eyes — was  mixed  with  the  ore  rock.  There 
was  the  sound  of  a  rushing  mighty  wind,  the  hot 
blast  that  fanned  this  furnace  seventy  times  hotter 
than  that  the  Babylonish  king  prepared.  The  coal, 
the  weaker  element,  itself  the  child  of  death,  must 
die  again.  But  not  in  vain ;  for  by  its  death  the  iron 
was  set  free  from  the  imprisoning  dross.  Forth 
flowed  a  golden  deadly  flood. 

Sometimes  it  was  allowed  to  cool  and  then  was  re- 


66     THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK   TRUITT 

melted  in  the  cupola.  Or,  ere  it  could  harden,  wait- 
ing ladles  caught  the  spouting  stream  and  skurried 
away  to  a  gigantic  trunnioned  tank.  And  there  the 
liquid  iron — two  hundred  tons  of  it,  or  more — was 
rocked  back  and  forth,  gently  as  a  mother  cradles 
her  babe,  future  compass  needle  and  rail  and  girder 
and  armor-plate  being  churned  into  uniformity  that, 
without  hazard  or  doubt,  they  might  be  transformed 
according  to  their  various  purposes. 

Thence  the  iron  was  passed  into  the  converter,  a 
towering  vessel  beyond  the  strength  of  men  to  lift 
but  so  delicately  poised  that  a  child  could  swing  it  to 
and  fro.  Suddenly  the  air  was  rent,  the  senses 
stunned,  by  a  wild  unearthly  shriek.  A  chilled  blast 
this ;  but,  as  it  rushed  irresistibly  through  the  molten 
mass,  by  some  strange  alchemy  the  iron  grew  hotter 
and  hotter,  more  liquid.  But  a  greater  wonder  was 
worked;  here  the  very  force  of  creation  was  har- 
nessed. With  atoms  of  the  rushing  oxygen  united 
and  fled,  in  fiery  embrace,  the  atoms  of  the  drossy 
elements  that  weakened  and  coarsened  the  iron. 
From  the  mouth  spouted  an  appalling  geyser  of  mul- 
ticolored sparks  and  orange  flame  that  flung  a  ruddy 
circle  athwart  the  night  sky.  Orange  became  violet, 
then  white,  glowed  steadily.  Slowly  the  converter 
inclined  and  into  ladle  and  mold  poured  another 
lambent  flood — the  steel. 

But  the  process  was  not  yet  complete.  From  above 
descended  a  great  talon  and  rose  again,  clutching  the 
mold.  An  incandescent  pillar  stood  revealed,  a 


THE    SERVICE   OF   THE    STRONG    67 

fearful  thing  whose  breath  seared.  Again  the  talon 
swooped,  seized  the  glowing  mass  and  plunged  it 
into  a  raging  pit  of  flame,  that  while  the  still  molten 
interior  hardened  the  "frozen"  crust  might  not  be- 
come cold. 

It  emerged,  solid,  radiant  and  beautiful,  for  the 
last  ordeal.  A  bed  of  cylinders  received  it.  They 
began  to  revolve  and  the  ingot,  like  some  animate 
thing,  darted  forward  to  be  caught  between  two 
crunching  rolls.  And  thus,  yielding  little  by  little 
to  the  remorseless  pressure,  the  steel  was  passed 
on  from  rolls  to  heating  furnace  and  to  rolls  again, 
was  crushed  and  roasted  and  sawn.  Its  violent 
ardor  cooled;  its  terrible  beauty  faded.  But  so  it 
was  at  last  shaped  to  its  ultimate  purpose,  made  fine 
in  grain  and  strong. 

And  back  of  it  all,  prologue  to  this  drama,  lay  the 
whole  record  of  human  invention,  beginning  with 
the  stone  mallet  of  the  cave-man.  For  the  mills 
were  an  evolution,  the  sum  of  the  mechanical 
achievement  of  countless  generations  that  had  toiled 
and  devised,  adding  knowledge  to  knowledge,  to 
forge  the  tools  to  make  the  mechanism  that  fash- 
ioned the  steel. 

The  epic  labor  captured  his  imagination.  The 
very  cruelty  of  the  task,  sending  men  to  match  their 
fallible  wits  against  forces  before  which  their 
puny  strength  would  have  been  worse  than  helpless, 
fascinated  him.  He  looked  almost  in  awe  at  those 
toilers — not  yet  had  invention,  never  so  fertile  as  in 


68     THE    AMBITION    OF   MARK   TRUITT 

this  industry,  thinned  out  their  army  and  lightened 
their  task — wrestling  with  bloom  and  billet  and 
writhing  red-hot  serpents. 

"God !"  he  exclaimed  one  night,  overcome  by  the 
splendor  of  it  all.  He  and  Blair  were  standing  on 
the  bridge  over  the  blooming  mill,  watching  the  half- 
naked  troop  that  with  hook  and  tongs  worked  a 
two-ton  ingot  over  the  rolls. 

"What  is  it?  What's  happened?"  Blair  looked 
around  for  an  accident  to  explain  the  ejaculation. 

"Nothing.  I  was  just  thinking  how — how  big  it 
is."  Mark  laughed  at  the  feebleness  of  his  words. 
"What  would  you  give  to  be  down  there?" 

There  is  such  a  thing  as  luck.  A  man — himself 
an  artist  who  had  not  yet  become  exploiter — who 
had  just  come  unnoticed  on  the  bridge  heard,  and 
with  a  half  smile,  saw  the  eager  face. 

Blair  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Yes,  it's  big.  But 
it's  hard  work.  Good  pay,  though." 

"I  suppose  so,"  Mark  answered  carelessly.  "I 
wasn't  thinking  of  that." 

The  man  spoke.    "Good  evening,  Blair." 

"Oh !  Good  evening,  Mr.  Henley."  Blair  struck 
a  respectful  attitude.  "A  bad  night,  sir." 

Henley  looked  at  Mark.  "I  don't  just  place  you. 
Where  have  I  seen  you  before  ?" 

Mark  flushed  at  the  recollection. 

"I  took  a  letter  I  had  for  you  and  you  caught 
me—" 

"So  you're  Peeping  Tom,  eh?  Did  you  get  a 
job?" 


THE    SERVICE   OF   THE    STRONG    69 

"Yes,  sir.  With  a  pick-and-shovel  gang.  I'm 
boss  now." 

Henley  seemed  not  unduly  impressed. 

"He's  the  man  that  dug  the  new  oven  beds,"  Blair 
interposed  generously.  "He  did  it  in  two  weeks  and 
three  days." 

"Two  weeks  and  two  days,"  Mark  corrected 
eagerly. 

"So  long?"  Henley  continued  indifferent. 

"I  had  a  spoiled  gang.  It  took  me  a  week  to  shape 
'em  up." 

"Humph !  That's  what  we  pay  bosses  for.  We 
gave  you  credit  for  that  job,  Blair." 

"I  took  him  out  of  the  gang  and  put  him  on  the 
job.  But  he  did  the  work.  He  knows  how  to  get 
work  out  of  men." 

And  that  was  high  praise — the  very  highest,  Hen- 
ley thought.  He  turned  again  to  Mark.  Beneath 
them,  not  ten  feet  below,  a  huge  bloom  passed.  Its 
hot  breath  fanned  them.  Its  radiance  lighted  up  the 
face  of  the  young  man-handler;  already  the  new  life, 
the  habit  and  desire  of  mastery,  were  setting  their 
stamp  there.  Henley's  interest  was  arrested.  .  .  . 
After  all,  amid  that  profusion  of  terrific  mira- 
cle-working forces,  the  human  factor  was  the  vital 
one — and,  in  the  approximate  perfection  demanded, 
the  hardest  to  find.  This  youth  gave  promise. 

"Are  you  satisfied  with  your  job?" 

"No,"  cried  Mark.  "I  don't  want  to  be  just  a 
iHunky-driver.  I  want  to  learn  how  to  make  steel." 

"It's  easier  to  learn  how  to  make  steel  than  to  be 


70    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK   TRUITT 

a  Hunky-driver,"  Henley  said  dryly.  "However,  I 
think  we  can  find  you  another  job." 

When  the  new  plant  was  built,  it  contained  a 
novel  equipment,  a  battery  of  furnaces  in  which  the 
iron  melted  and  boiled,  with  none  of  the  converter's 
spectacular  display,  and  became  fine  steel. 

Here  Mark  laid  aside  for  a  time  mastery  over  men 
and  learned  to  master  the  forces  that  make  steel. 
And  this,  too,  may  be  accounted  as  luck.  For  the 
furnaces  had  been  called  "Henley's  folly" :  therefore 
they  were  his  pride  and  especial  care. 


CHAPTER  V 

CROSSROADS 

IT  had  been  an  unusually  stubborn  "hard-tap",  re- 
quiring quick  heavy  sledging  to  break  out  the 
hardened  fire-clay  and  slag  in  the  tap-hole.  But  the 
feat  had  been  performed,  the  steel  had  gushed  forth 
before  the  fatal  decarburization  could  begin  and  the 
full  ladle  had  moved  away.  The  slag  that  had 
floated  on  the  metal  was  now  dripping  into  the  cin- 
der pit,  sending  up  a  shower  of  golden  sparks. 

Roman  Andzrejzski,  melter  in  charge  of  the  fur- 
nace, was  watching  the  scorched  haggard  face  of  his 
"second  helper".  That  young  man,  leaning  with  an 
air  of  exhaustion  and  discouragement  on  his  in- 
verted sledge,  was  coughing  violently.  He  had 
caught  a  heavy  cold  and  the  fine  dust  in  the  air  irri- 
tated his  throat  and  lungs.  Moreover,  it  was  the 
fortnightly  double  turn.  He  had  been  on  duty  twen- 
ty hours;  four  more  and  the  heavy  labor  of  charg- 
ing the  furnace  yet  remained.  The  prospect  dis- 
mayed him.  He  had  been  just  three  months  in  the 
heat  and  toil  the  open-hearth  furnacemen  must  en- 
dure and  an  unnerving  fear  was  upon  him :  that  his 
steadily  waning  strength  would  not  hold  out. 

"Vat  iss  it?    Zick?"    Roman  spoke  in  the  slow 


72     THE    AMBITION   OF   MARK   TRUITT 

careful   fashion  that  was  his  habit  when  he  used 
English. 

Mark  shook  his  head.    "Tuckered  out." 

"Tuckeredt  out  ?"  Roman  looked  at  him  gravely. 
"You  drink  too  much  ?" 

"I  don't  drink  at  all." 

"That  iss  goot  Mineself,"  Roman  explained 
naively,  "I  drink  too  much.  Unt  that  iss  not  goot. 
But  always  haf  I  been  very  strong.  It  iss  the  douple 
turn,"  he  added.  "It  iss  very  hardt  on  the  young. 
Later  it  gets  not  zo  hardt — zometimes.  Vare  do 
youlif?" 

"With  a  Frenchman  in  Rose  Alley.  Rose  Alley — 
it  stinks !  It's  too  near  the  mills.  I  can't  sleep  for 
the  noise.  I'm  tired  and  my  head  aches  all  the 
time." 

"For  two,  three  days  then  you  must  not  vork  but 
zleep." 

Mark's  red  eyes  darted  angry  suspicion  at  his 
chief.  "I  suppose  you  want  my  job  for  somebody 
else,"  he  sneered. 

"No.    You  are  a  goot  vorker.    Unt  I  like  you." 

"All  the  same,"  Mark  answered  doggedly,  "I  quit 
when  I  have  to — not  before." 

"You  do  not  belief  me."  Roman  shrugged  his  big 
shoulders.  "Vat  do  you  eat  ?" 

"Oh,  soup  and  brown  bread  and  potatoes  mostly. 
That's  the  trouble,  I  guess." 

"Hundert  t'ousandt  defils !  Zo  little  unt  you  vork 
here !  You  are  American,  you  must  eat.  Vy  you 
not  lif  another  place?" 


CROSSROADS  73 

"The  Frenchies  sort  o'  think  they're  friends. 
They  wouldn't  understand." 

"Zo?  But  here,"  Roman  shrugged  his  shoulders 
again,  "it  iss  a  man  must  be  for  himself. — Ve  vork 
now."  They  returned  to  their  task. 

Even  double  turns  have  an  end.  The  night  shift 
came  on  at  last.  At  the  trough  for  cooling  tools 
Mark  washed  away  the  grimy  sweat  that  streamed 
down  his  face.  Then  he  donned  a  dry  shirt  and 
a  heavy  overcoat.  Despite  this  covering  his  over- 
heated body  shivered  when  the  raw,  early  April 
wind  struck  him. 

"Vait!"  And  Roman  was  beside  him.  "I  haf  de- 
citedt  You  come  lif  by  my  house." 

"I  guess  not,"  Mark  answered  wearily,  "I  guess 
you  don't  want  me." 

"I  haf  decitedt,"  Roman  repeated.  "You  haf  been 
goot  f riendts  to  your  friendts — you  vill  be  to  us  also. 
I  haf  a  big  house.  It  iss  still  there ;  you  shall  zleep 
unt  not  hear  the  mills.  Unt  my  Matka,  she  iss 
goot  cook.  Unt  meppy  you  make  friendts  vit  my 
Piotr.  He  hass  no  American  friendts." 

"You  might  get  tired  of  me." 

"Zo?  Then  vill  I  tell  you,"  said  Roman  simply. 
"Alzo,  you  vill  tell  us,  ven  you  get  tiredt  of  us.  Unt 
you  vill  not  be  chargedt  too  much.  You  vill  come  ?" 

Mark  hesitated,  then  laughed  grimly.  "Will  I 
come !" 

"Goot!"  Roman  laid  a  kindly  hand  on  Mark's 
shoulder.  "Now  vill  you  belief  me  unt  not  vork  till 
the  coldt  iss  veil.  You  vill  come  to-morrow  ?" 


74    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

And,  the  matter  arranged,  they  parted  for  the 
night. 

But  as  he  trudged  toward  Rose  Alley,  Mark  made 
a  strange  discovery :  there  is  such  a  thing  as  an  em- 
barrassment of  friendship.  Marcel  and  Suzon,  for 
instance.  Since  the  day  when  Marcel  had  broken 
bread  with  a  fellow  laborer,  he  and  his  good  wife 
had  taken  Mark  into  their  hearts.  Mark  could  as- 
sign no  reason  for  this  affection,  but  there  was  the 
fact.  They  had  taken  a  proprietary  interest  in  his 
promotion  to  Houlahan's  job.  They  had  exulted 
when  he  had  moved  up  among  those  aristocrats,  the 
skilled  laborers.  They  had  deferred  to  his  opinions, 
as  well  as  they  could  ministered  to  his  wants,  given 
him  the  choicest  morsels  of  their  scanty  fare  and 
generally  regarded  him  as  a  superior  being  whom  it 
was  a  delight  to  clothe  with  service  and  love.  For 
Mark  it  had  been  a  rather  amusing,  somewhat  flat- 
tering arrangement — and  until  lately,  quite  conven- 
ient. 

And  now  Marcel  and  Suzon  were  to  be  told  that 
the  arrangement  had  outlived  its  usefulness.  The 
thought  weighed  astonishingly  heavy,  grew  heavier 
as  he  approached  the  tenement  and  the  unroselike 
odors  of  Rose  Alley  assailed  his  nostrils. 

Marcel  and  Suzon  were  in  the  kitchen,  the  latter 
hovering  anxiously  over  a  pot  on  the  stove.  She 
turned  eagerly  as  Mark  entered. 

"M'sieu  ees  ver'  tire',"  Marcel  announced,  after 
inspection. 

"Played  out,  Marcel." 


CROSSROADS  75 

"Jus'  wait!"  Suzon's  face  beamed  with  excite- 
ment. 

"What  is  it?" 

"A  su'prise  for  m'sieu,"  Marcel  explained. 

More  than  once  Mark  had  been  amused  by  their 
glee  over  the  prospect  of  a  "su'prise  for  m'sieu", 
about  which,  like  children  playing  a  game,  they  al- 
ways threw  an  air  of  great  mystery  and  importance. 
He  tried  to  play  up  to  the  part  the  game  required  of 
him. 

"My !  I'd  better  wash  up  in  a  hurry !"  He  passed 
into  the  little  room  that  was  his. 

But  something  must  have  been  lacking  in  his 
words,  for  Suzon's  face  fell.  "You  t'ink  'e  will 
like?" 

"Sure!  'E  ees  ver'  tire',  Suzon,"  Marcel  encour- 
aged. He  nodded  toward  the  covered  pot.  "Dat 
res'  'eem." 

When  Mark,  washed — in  the  basin  Marcel  had 
filled  for  him — and  a  little  refreshed,  emerged  from 
his  room,  the  "su'prise"  was  ready.  Suzon  served 
it,  three  full  plates  of  it,  steaming  and  savory. 

"Ah!"  Marcel  heaved  a  sigh  of  pride  and  satis- 
faction. "Bif  stew!" 

"With  onion,"  Suzon  amended,  scanning  Mark's 
face  eagerly.  "You  like  ?" 

Mark  tasted  it.  "It's  fine."  It  was.  But  the 
words  rang  hollow  in  his  ears. 

"Dat  Suzon,"  Marcel  proclaimed  proudly,  "she 
one  dam'  fine  woman.  She  know  w'at  ees  need'  aft' 
delongshif',eh?" 


76    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK   TRUITT 

"You're  right,  Marcel!"  cried  Mark,  feeling  a 
Judas  or,  at  the  very  least,  a  Peter  at  the  third  cock- 
crow. 

With  every  mouthful  his  resolution  melted.  It 
irritated  him  to  learn  that  so  much  courage  was  re- 
quired for  a  proceeding  his  reason  assured  him  was 
entirely  warranted.  His  effort,  purely  histrionic,  to 
enter  into  the  spirit  of  the  "su'prise"  was  not  a  suc- 
cess ;  Suzon  and  Marcel  laid  it  to  his  weariness. 

When,  after  a  pipe  with  Marcel,  he  went  to  his 
room,  irritation  increased.  The  room  was  scrupu- 
lously clean.  But  with  its  one  chair  and  hard  bed 
it  could  be  only  bare  and  cheerless.  Through  its 
window  the  roar  of  the  mills  came  ceaselessly,  rasp- 
ing overwrought  nerves,  banishing  sound  restful 
slumber.  Why  should  a  man  who  made  eighteen 
dollars  a  week  and  hoped,  nay,  proposed,  to  go  much 
farther,  live  in  a  shabby  tenement  on  an  alley  full  of 
strange  sounds  and  smells,  where  beef  stew  was  a 
luxury  to  be  enjoyed  only  on  rare  and  ceremonious 
occasions  ? 

"You're  a  soft-hearted  fool,"  he  addressed  Mark 
Truitt  angrily.  "What  are  these  grown-up  children 
with  their  baby  plays  to  you?" 

He  strode  to  the  door  and  flung  it  open. 

"Marcel,"  he  blurted  out,  "I'm  going  to  leave 
you." 

Marcel  dropped  his  pipe  and  stared.  "Eh  ?  You 
go  back  to  de  contree  ?" 

"No.  I'm  going  to  live  with  Roman  Andzrejzski." 

"You  goin'  to —  'Ave  I  done  somet'ing?" 


CROSSROADS  77 

"No !  Oh,  no !  Certainly  not !  You've  been  fine 
to  me.  I — I  appreciate  it."  Very  eagerly,  but  with 
a  painful  sense  of  inadequacy!  "It's  just  that  I'm 
petering  out — you  can  see  that  for  yourself.  I've 
got  to  go  where  it's  quieter  at  night  and  the  air's  bet- 
ter and  I  can  sleep  and  get  better — get  things  to  eat 
you  can't  afford  to  give  me.  Of  course,  I  can't  let 
you  spend  more  than  you  can  afford." 

"We  spen'  all  we  'ave,  m'sieu,"  said  Suzon 
quietly. 

"We  'ave  not  done  somet'ing — dat  ees  sure?" 
Marcel  persisted. 

"Sure,  Marcel !  I  don't  want  to  go.  I've  just  got 
to — I'm  not  so  strong  as  I  thought.  And,  of  course, 
we'll  still  be  good  friends  and  see  a  lot  of  each  other 
and — and —  You  understand,  don't  you?" 

Marcel  sighed.  He  understood.  "W'en  our  bes' 
eet  ees  too  leetle,  m'sieu  go — dat  ees  righ'.  But  eet 
ees  ver'  sad — to  me." 

"And  maybe" — the  false  hope  was  for  himself 
as  well  as  for  them — "when  we're  both  making  more 
money,  we  can  live  together  again.  You'd  like  that, 
wouldn't  you?" 

"Yes,  m'sieu."    But  Marcel  sighed  again. 

"I  t'ink,"  said  Suzon,  still  quietly,  "w'en  m'sieu 
go,  'e  forget  dat." 

"Oh,  I  can  never  forget,  Suzon."  He  began  an  en- 
ergertic  resume  of  their  hospitality  and  his  deep  en- 
during appreciation.  He  proposed  to  watch  closely 
for  a  chance  to  advance  their  interests — he  insisted 
firmly  upon  that.  They  listened  passively.  Energy 


78    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

is  not  always  convincing,  least  of  all  to  the  orator. 
The  flow  of  words  slackened,  ceased  entirely. 

"You  understand,  don't  you  ?"  he  ended  lamely. 

"Yes,  m'sieu,"  they  said. 

He  stood  for  a  moment  in  an  awkward  silence, 
then  withdrew  into  his  room.  The  silence  in  the 
kitchen  continued. 

He  went  to  bed,  but  not  to  sleep.  Nor  were  the 
mills  and  the  hard  couch  wholly  to  blame.  A  sense 
of  cruelty  persisted,  the  keener  for  that  Marcel  and 
Suzon  had  made  no  demonstration.  A  sorrow,  too, 
that  was  all  for  himself  persisted.  They  loved  him 
and  it  was  good  to  be  loved,  even  by  homely,  simple 
grown-up  children  who  must  pass  through  life  yoked 
to  the  lot  he  would  escape.  He  thought  of  the  sum 
lying  to  his  credit  in  the  bank — in  no  week  had  he 
failed  to  add  to  his  capital — and  of  the  means  of  es- 
cape it  afforded  both  him  and  them,  if  only  he  were 
minded  to  share  his  savings,  or  even  his  weekly 
wages,  more  generously  with  his  friends.  It 
amounted  almost  to  a  temptation. 

Ah!  but  dollars  were  bullets  in  the  campaign 
ahead ! 

"Why  should  I  share  with  them?  I'd  be  a  fool 
to  try  to  carry  them  up?  I've  got  enough  to  do  to 
get  myself  there." 

So  he  silenced  a  beautiful  impulse  and  lay,  open- 
eyed,  feeling  the  bite  of  a  cruelty. 

It  was  a  little  thing.  But  he  was  not  the  youth 
who  had  come,  ignorant  of  life,  to  the  city. 


CROSSROADS  79 

Victory,  mastery,  had  intoxicated  him;  desire  for 
them  waxed  hotter.  But  already  toil,  the  driving 
toil  that  racked  soul  as  well  as  body,  was  giving  him 
a  little  of  understanding — that  for  those  who  bore 
the  heat  and  burden  of  the  day  the  decent  kindly  ties 
were  all  that  sweetened  life  and  that,  once  severed, 
they  were  apt  never  to  be  cemented  again.  Yet  an- 
other truth  gleamed  lurid :  he  who  would  climb  out 
of  the  ruck  of  the  toilers  into  the  sheltered  estate  of 
the  profit-takers  must  be  ruthless  to  break  these  ties 
lest,  clinging  to  him,  they  make  his  feet  heavy  for 
the  climb.  In  the  struggle  to  survive  they  were  the 
price  of  survival. 

But  he  saw  as  through  a  glass  darkly.  His  senti- 
mental compunction  was  a  phase  that  quickly  passed. 
Once  he  was  settled  in  his  new  home,  Marcel  and 
Suzon  soon  went  out  of  his  thoughts  and  out  of  his 
heart — if,  indeed,  they  had  ever  more  than  knocked 
at  the  gate  of  that  citadel. 

Roman's  house,  big  only  by  comparison  with 
three-room  tenements,  was  on  a  quiet  street  on  one 
of  the  city's  seven  hills.  Mark  was  tucked  away  in 
a  third-story  room.  Not  even  his  fancy,  less  lively 
than  in  months  agone  but  still  fertile,  could  conceive 
the  cheap  bed  and  rocker,  rag  carpet  and  unpainted 
table  as  the  trappings  of  luxury.  But  it  was  clean 
and  comfortable,  through  its  windows  swept  the 
clean  air  for  which  his  country-bred  lungs  were 
starving  and  the  mills  were  heard  only  as  a  subdued, 
not  unmusical  rumble.  Also,  immeasurable  boon! 


8o    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

there  was  in  that  house  a  bathtub;  his  attendance 
upon  it  astonished  even  Kazia,  who  esteemed  bath- 
ing more  highly  than  did  the  rest  of  Roman's  house- 
hold. The  Matka's  cooking,  supplemented  by 
Kazia's  arts,  fell  but  little  short  of  Roman's  prospec- 
tus and  the  fare  had  substance. 

For  three  days,  hearkening  to  Roman's  counsel, 
he  did  nothing  but  sleep  and  eat.  His  cold  disap- 
peared. His  flagging  strength  revived.  Then  he 
gave  himself  anew  to  the  endless  narrow  grind — 
toil,  eat,  sleep  and  toil  again. 

Roman's  house,  it  is  true,  contained  more  than 
comfortable  beds  and  a  bathtub,  a  fact  to  which 
Mark  gave  at  first  but  scant  attention.  There  was 
Roman  himself,  in  the  mills  a  precise,  patient,  un- 
flurried  workman,  outside  a  good-natured  impulsive 
giant,  with  a  child's  ungoverned  appetite.  There 
was  Hanka,  his  wife,  always  called  Matka — mother 
— a  drab,  shriveled  little  woman  who  after  twelve 
years  in  America  had  learned  hardly  a  word  of  Eng- 
lish. Piotr  was  a  greedy,  usually  sullen  boy  of 
eighteen,  still  in  high  school,  always  bent  over  his 
troublesome  books.  He  had  a  club  foot  and  the 
heavy  labor  of  the  mills  was  not  for  him. 

"Piotr  iss  a  goot  boy,"  Roman  confided  to  Mark, 
"but  he  iss  ashamedt  that  he  iss  Hunky.  I  am  not 
ashamedt.  He  beliefs  ven  he  iss  smart  with  his 
books  he  vill  be  American.  But,"  the  father  sighed, 
"Piotr  iss  not  smart." 

Also,  there  was  Kazia. 


CROSSROADS  81 

At  first  Mark  gave  but  passing  notice  to  the  girl 
who  moved  so  quietly  around  the  house,  waiting  on 
the  table,  sweeping  and  sewing.  Having  certain 
standards  of  beauty,  he  carelessly  decided  that  she 
had  none  of  it.  Her  hair  and  eyes  were  dark;  all 
beauty,  he  held,  was  fair.  She  was  tall,  full-chest- 
ed and  strong;  this  denoted  coarseness  of  fiber.  She 
was  indifferent,  somber;  daintiness  and  vivacity 
were  indispensable  to  his  ideal,  and  he  suspected  the 
existence  of  no  subterranean  fires.  Her  hands  were 
rough  and  red;  he  particularly  desired  those  mem- 
bers to  be  pretty  in  a  woman.  Her  full  rosy  lips,  he 
was  forced  to  admit,  would  have  been  attractive  if 
she  smiled  more,  and  her  voice  was  pleasant.  But 
Kazia  talked  little  and  seldom  smiled  in  his  presence. 

That  she  seemed  capable  and  industrious  and  had 
a  certain  hard  sense  in  matters  domestic ;  that  with- 
out her  ideas  and  quietly  insistent  application 
Roman's  house  would  have  been  not  at  all  the  neat 
comfortable  abode  it  was,  grateful  refuge  for  stag- 
gering young  soldiers  of  fortune :  these  virtues  also 
he  was  soon  forced  to  grant  to  her.  And  very  estim- 
able virtues  they  were,  no  doubt — in  Kazia,  and 
probably  unusual  among  girls  of  seventeen.  But 
they  were  not,  alas !  the  qualities  that  won  diplomas 
from  Miss  Smith's  Seminary  for  Young  Ladies. 

What  hopes  Roman  may  have  cherished  from  the 
presence  of  a  young  American  in  his  home  were  not 
at  once  realized. 

Even  when   Mark   had   regained   much   of   his 


82    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

strength,  the  fear  of  physical  collapse  hung  over  him 
always.  Of  theories  of  training  he  knew  nothing, 
but  he  saw  clearly  that,  if  he  was  not  to  stagger  out 
of  the  ranks,  done  for — a  common  enough  tragedy 
— there  must  be  no  waste  of  strength  and  no  neglect 
to  replace  burnt-out  tissues. 

His  body,  which  had  gathered  its  never  excep- 
tional strength  in  the  woods,  on  the  river  and  over 
his  father's  anvil,  could  not  quite  adjust  itself  to  the 
heavy  toil,  the  glare  of  boiling  steel,  painful  even 
when  seen  through  dark  glasses,  and  the  nervous 
strain  of  the  mills'  incessant  roar.  There  was  no 
night  or  morning  when  he  did  not  return  ready, 
after  bathing  and  eating,  to  seek  his  bed.  Even  with 
all  the  rest  he  could  get  his  former  bodily  freshness 
and  eagerness  never  returned. 

He  did  not  mean  to  be  selfish.  Sometimes  at  the 
end  of  a  meal  he  caught  Roman's  wistful  glance  and 
felt  uncomfortably  that  he  was  failing  in  an  obliga- 
tion. But  always  he  went  straightway  to  his  room 
and  his  precious  sleep,  adhering  rigidly  to  his  routine 
— toil,  eat,  sleep  and  toil  again — hoarding  his 
strength  as  a  miser  hoards  his  gold.  Had  not  Ro- 
man said,  "A  man  must  be  for  himself"?  And 
always  there  floated  before  him  a  picture  so  sweetly 
pathetic  as  almost  to  invoke  tears :  Unity,  the  faith- 
ful Penelope,  trustingly  awaiting  her  adventuring 
lord's  return. 

Thus  the  life  fashioned  him.  It  was  no  longer 
self-denial  that  he  might  earn  gratification  at  an- 


CROSSROADS  83 

other  time,  but  self-control  lest  he  go  down  in  the 
melee. 

But   one   night   he   discovered   Kazia — the   real 
Kazia. 


CHAPTER  VI 

MELTING  ORE 

A  GENTLEMAN,  who  must  pass  down  in  his- 
tory as  Mr.  A,  led  to  the  discovery.  Mr.  A, 
an  oarsman  who  could  propel  his  boat  five  miles  an 
hour  in  still  water,  undertook  to  row  twenty-three 
miles  up  a  river  whose  current  ran  two  and  one-half 
miles  an  hour,  and  back.  The  problem  was :  In  how 
long  did  Mr.  A  accomplish  this  feat? 

And  upon  Piotr  fell  the  duty  of  finding  the  solu- 
tion. Piotr  felt  painfully  incompetent. 

"Na  milosc  Boga!"  When  Piotr  dropped  back 
into  Polish,  deep  emotion  was  stirring. 

It  was  at  the  end  of  supper  on  a  Saturday  night 
when  the  other  shift  worked  and  Mark's  rested  for 
twenty-four  hours.  That  day  Henley,  passing  the 
furnaces,  had  spoken  to  him  by  name,  leaving  a  glow 
that  had  not  subsided. 

"What's  the  matter,  Piotr?" 

"I  can't  work  this  problem." 

"Let  me  see  it."  If  we  could  but  measure  our 
impulses ! 

Piotr  looked  up  astounded.  "Do  you  know  alge- 
bra?" 

"A  little."  Mark  took  up  the  book.  "Hmm! 
What's  #?  Why,  that's  easy." 

84 


MELTING   ORE  85 

He  sat  down  and  quickly  worked  out  the  problem. 
Then  he  led  Piotr  slowly  through  the  equations 
thrice,  after  which  he  let  the  boy  begin  unaided  a 
stumbling  but  finally  successful  pursuit  of  the  elu- 
sive x. 

While  Piotr  was  floundering,  his  new  mentor  felt 
some  one  behind  him.  He  glanced  around  and 
caught  Kazia,  her  arms  full  of  unwashed  dishes, 
looking  at  him.  The  wonted  indifference  had  fled 
before  a  look  of  surprised  interest.  Mark  stared,  in- 
credulous; it  seemed  not  the  same  face.  But  the 
new  look  vanished  instantly.  He  had  a  sense  of 
bafflement,  as  if  he  had  come  upon  a  rare  picture 
just  as  a  curtain  was  drawn. 

"Fine!"  he  exclaimed,  clapping  Piotr  on  the 
shoulder;  he  had  not  heard  the  last  few  equations. 
"We'll  make  a  scholar  out  of  you  yet,  Pete." 

"Pete!"  The  boy's  homely  face  lighted  up. 
"Kazia,  did  you  hear?  He  called  me  Pete." 

"I  like  Piotr  better,"  she  said,  with  a  shrug  that 
imperiled  her  burden. 

"Do  you,"  Piotr  turned  again  to  Mark,  "do  you 
know  Latin,  too?" 

"Oh,  a  little !"  Mark  sought  Kazia's  face  as  this 
announcement  of  his  erudition  fell.  But  Kazia.  was 
looking  away. 

"And  will  you  help  me  with  that  sometimes  ?" 

"Sure.    Sometimes,"  Mark  assented  recklessly. 

But  Piotr  was  insatiable.    "Every  night?" 

"Well,  no,"  said  Mark,  recovering  caution.  "Not 
every  night.  I  can't — " 


86    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

"Of  course  not,  Piotr,"  Kazia  cut  in.  "He  can't 
waste  time  on  a  stupid  little  Hunky." 

"I'm  not  a  Hunky,"  Piotr  resented  passionately, 
addressing  Kazia  but  for  Mark's  benefit,  "any 
more'n  you  are.  We  are — we  were — Poles.  But 
we're  Americans  now.  Why,  I've  almost  forgotten 
how  to  talk  Polish — except  to  the  Matka,"  he  added 
conscientiously. 

"Will  you  help  me  to-night?"  he  returned  to 
Mark,  with  less  assurance.  "It's  Caesar.  And  I  am 
stupid,"  he  sighed. 

Mark,  though  repenting  his  rashness,  could  not 
well  refuse.  For  an  hour  they  listened  while  Csesar 
unctuously  told  how  he  had  taught  the  conquered 
Vercingetorix  his  place.  But  Kazia  was  not  at  any 
time  present  during  the  lesson.  At  last,  yawning 
mightily,  Mark  arose.  He  went  up  to  his  room, 
bearing  Piotr's  awkward  gratitude  and  followed  by 
a  look  of  humble  admiration  it  is  probably  well  he 
did  not  perceive. 

But  the  incident  had  its  sequel. 

He  found  a  light  burning  dimly  in  the  narrow 
hallway  before  his  door,  and  coming  out  of  his  room 
— Kazia. 

"I  was  fixing  things,"  she  exclaimed,  indifferent 
as  ever. 

"Thank  you,  Kazia."  The  room,  as  he  remem- 
bered it,  had  been  in  perfect  order.  He  stood  aside 
to  let  her  pass. 

She  took  one  step  and  then  stopped  abruptly, 
looking  up  at  him  with  suddenly  hostile  eyes. 


MELTING   ORE  87 

"What,"  she  demanded,  "did  you  come  here  for?" 
He  smiled — the  smile  of  age  for  a  naughty  but 
amusing  child.     "Because  your  father  asked  me,  I 
guess." 

"But  you  know  Latin  and  algebra  and  things." 
"Why,  what's  that  got  to  do  with  it,  Kazia  ?" 
"We  don't.  We're  just  mill-workers — and  Hunk- 
ies." 

He  was  not  schooled  in  the  reading  of  voices,  but 
he  caught  bitterness  there.  He  looked  at  her  more 
intently — and  more  kindly. 

"I'm  a  mill- worker,  too.  And  I  don't  know  much 
of  those  things  really.  What  I  do  know  is  an  acci- 
dent. A  preacher  where  I  came  from  taught  me  a 
little.  I'm  not  vain  over  it." 

"But  you  know  them,"  she  insisted.  "And  we 
don't.  Piotr  tries,  but  he  can't — he's  too  stupid." 
She  threw  her  head  back,  in  defiance  of  the  contempt 
he  must  feel  for  them  and  their  ignorance.  "I  could, 
but  they  won't  let  me.  I  can't  even  talk  right — ex- 
cept what  I  pick  up  from  Piotr." 

"But  you  talk  as  well  as  I  do,  Kazia." 

"No,  I  don't.     You  just  say  that     What,"  she 

repeated  resentfully,  "did  you  come  here  for?    You 

don't  like  us.    You  won't  have  anything  to  do  with 

us.  You  eat,  then  go  up  to  your  room  and  stay  there. 

We  thought  you  were  coming  to  be  friends  with 

Piotr" — an  almost  imperceptible  pause — "and  me." 

Amusement  had  quite  gone.     He  had  forgotten 

that  he  was  very  tired  and  sleepy.     He  had  not 


88    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

thought  that  dark  eyes  could  be  so  expressive;  in 
particular,  that  Kazia's  could  disturb  the  careful 
reasoning  with  which  he  had  hedged  about  his  exclu- 
siveness.  He  was  impelled  to  make  his  position 
clear. 

"I  come  up  to  sleep,  Kazia.  You  see,  I  was  pretty 
near  on  my  last  legs  when  I  came  here  and  I  need 
all  the  rest  I  can  get.  I'm  not  used  to  work  in  the 
mills  and  I  guess  I'm  not  so  strong  as  I  look.  If  I'm 
going  to  get  ahead,  I've  got  to  do  it  while  I  can  stand 
the  work.  Besides  I  didn't  think  you  cared  whether 
I  liked  you  or  not." 

"I  don't,"  she  declared,  with  a  little  uptilting  of 
her  chin ;  it  was  a  beautifully  molded  feature.  The 
movement  called  his  eyes  to  the  slender  yet  strong 
and  rounded  throat.  He  wondered  that  these  beau- 
ties had  escaped  his  notice.  "I  don't.  But  Piotr 
and  Uncle  Roman  do." 

"Uncle  Roman?"  It  was  the  first  time  he  had 
heard  the  phrase.  "I  thought  he  was  your  father, 
Kazia." 

In  the  flickering  light  he  could  see  hot  color  sud- 
denly rush  to  her  normally  white  cheeks.  She 
seemed  to  shrink  away  from  him,  as  if  in  fear  of  a 
hurt. 

"No.    I— I  have  no  father." 

"Oh !"  He  assumed  a  bereavement.  On  a  sud- 
den pitying  impulse  he  put  out  his  hand  and  laid  it 
on  her  bare  forearm ;  the  flesh  was  smooth  and  firm. 
"That's  too  bad,  Kazia." 


MELTING   ORE  89 

And  then,  most  unexpectedly,  the  curtain  was 
drawn  aside  for  him. 

"I  won't  be  pitied  1"  With  the  cry  fell  away  the 
Kazia  he  had  known,  as  did  Cinderella's  tatters.  In 
her  place  stood  a  girl  who  seemed  taller,  whose  head 
was  held  in  a  fashion  peculiar,  in  his  books,  to  very 
proud  and  fine  ladies.  Her  eyes  blazed  defiance. 
She  snatched  her  arm  away.  "Here  they're  all 
ashamed.  But  I  ain't  ashamed.  I  won't  have  you 
pity  me." 

This  was  mystery.  '.But  he  did  not  press  her  for 
an  explanation.  He  was  more  interested  in  another 
phenomenon.  He  leaned  forward,  eagerly  drinking 
in  the  details  of  the  picture  lest  with  the  subsidence 
of  her  strange  outburst  it  be  caught  away  from  his 
sight  once  more. 

"Do  you  know  you're  mighty  good-looking, 
Kazia?" 

The  angry  crimson  deepened.  "You're  laughing 
at  me.  You're — " 

"But  I'm  not  laughing."  He  caught  her  arm  again, 
gently.  "I'm  only  surprised.  I  didn't  think  you  were. 
But  you  are — when  you're  interested  or  mad.  Only 
please  don't  be  mad,  because — "  What  was  this 
unconsidered  thing  he  was  saying?  He  was  deli- 
ciously  aware  of  the  smooth  warm  flesh  in  his 
grasp.  The  words  ran  on. — "Because  I  want  to  be 
friends  with  you. — Don't  you  want  me  to  stay?" 

For  a  silent  moment  she  looked  at  him  strangely. 
It  was  early  May.  Through  an  open  window  the 


night  breeze,  robbed  of  its  fragrance  by  its  sweep 
over  the  valley  of  mills,  yet  breathed  a  hint  of 
spring,  of  renewed  life,  of  bright  warm  youth.  And 
she,  under  the  flickering  light,  her  eyes  aglow,  anger 
still  flaming  in  her  cheeks,  was  bright,  warm,  vital 
youth.  The  hand  upon  her  arm  tingled  from  the 
contact  and  tightened  its  clasp.  .  .  .  Insensibly, 
under  his  regard,  the  transforming  angry  defiance 
melted.  But  the  transformation  remained. 

"Yes."  She  turned  abruptly  and  left  him,  de- 
scending the  stairs  without  so  much  as  a  glance  back- 
ward. 

For  a  full  minute  he  stood  looking  at  the  place 
where  she  had  been.  Then  he  drew  a  long  sighing 
breath. 

"She's  a  queer  one,"  he  muttered. 

Now  it  was  the  romantic  habit  of  this  young  man, 
when  he  laid  him  down  to  sleep,  to  give  his  last  wak- 
ing moments  to  thoughts  of  her  who  was  to  wear  the 
trophies  of  his  battling.  So  the  Moslem  nightly 
turns  his  face  toward  the  city  of  his  prophet.  Thus 
it  was  on  that  night.  His  thoughts  dwelt  conscien- 
tiously on  Unity,  in  the  fashion  that  is  a  lover's 
duty,  until  sleep,  stealing  close,  treacherously  set 
them  to  drifting  rudderless. 

The  last  to  resist  consciousness  was,  "Will  she 
look  the  same  to-morrow,  I  wonder?" 

When  he  awoke,  the  late  morning  sunshine  filled 
his  room.  But  the  eager  expectancy  pervading  him, 
as  if  some  long  planned  holiday  had  dawned,  was 
more  than  a  reflection  of  this  outer  radiance. 


MELTING   ORE  91 

Then  he  remembered  Kazia  and  her  transforma- 
tion ;  and  that  through  the  night  he  had  dreamed  of 
splendid  tempestuous  creatures  with  finely  molded 
chins  and  white  rounded  throats  and  arms,  the  touch 
of  which  set  a  man  to  tingling.  He  laughed  silently ; 
how  dreams  could  twist  the  fact!  But  he  was  cu- 
rious— he  called  it  curiosity — to  see  whether  the 
transformation  held. 

He  bathed  and  dressed  carefully.  And  for  the 
first  time  he  perceived  that  his  clothes,  relic  of 
Bethel  days,  lacked  something  when  judged  by  city 
standards.  He  frowned  at  the  image  in  the  cheap 
mirror. 

"I  must  buy  a  new  suit,"  he  muttered. 

When  he  went  down-stairs  he  found  Kazia  bend- 
ing over  a  window-box  in  the  dining-room  where 
three  scarlet  geraniums  flamed.  She  heard  his  ap- 
proach and  turned  slowly.  .  .  .  No  deceptive 
half-light,  but  the  full  glory  of  spring  sunshine,  was 
upon  her.  She  was  indifferent  as  ever.  But  the 
transformation  held. 

"Oh!  Hullo!" 

"Hello!"  she  said  quietly,  and  moved  away 
toward  the  kitchen. 

"Kazia—" 

She  paused  inquiringly. 

"Er — "  he  floundered.    "It's  a  fine  morning." 

"Yes,"  she  said. 

His  remark,  he  felt,  hardly  justified  her  detention. 
He  groped  about  for  a  more  fertile  topic.  "Fine 
geraniums  you've  got  there,  Kazia." 


92     THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

"Yes." 

"My  goodness !"  he  laughed.  "Is  'yes'  all  you  can 
say?  Don't  you  remember  we  agreed  to  be 
friends?" 

"I  said  I  wanted  you  to  stay,"  she  corrected,  with- 
out enthusiasm.  "I'll  get  your  breakfast."  This 
time  she  accomplished  her  escape. 

He  sat  at  the  table,  loftily  amused.  Probably — • 
thus  he  considered  her  unresponsiveness — the  poor 
thing  still  doubted  his  sincerity.  And  she  had  rea- 
son, beyond  question ;  on  the  whole  he  had  been  self- 
ish in  his  rigid  seclusion.  He  must  repair  that. 

Kazia,  bearing  his  breakfast,  interrupted  his  mu- 
sings. He  surveyed  approvingly  the  dishes  she  set 
before  him. 

"You're  a  fine  cook,  Kazia.  Now  don't,"  he  pro- 
tested humorously,  "say  *yes'-" 

Unsmilingly  she  ignored  both  the  compliment  and 
the  jest.  "Will  that  be  all?" 

"Well,  no." 

"What  else?" 

"You  might,"   he   smiled,   "sit   down   and  be — 

friendly." 

"I've  got  to  work." 

"It  seems,"  he  complained,  "you're  always  work- 
ing." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "That's  what  I'm 
for."  And  she  left  him. 

He  frowned.  It  might  have  been  raining  on  his 
holiday.  He  was  able,  nevertheless,  to  make  a  sub- 
stantial breakfast. 


MELTING    ORE  93 

Back  in  his  room,  which  she  had  set  in  order  while 
he  ate,  he  formally  and  finally  dismissed  Kazia 
from  his  mind  and  began  his  weekly  letter  to  Unity. 
At  the  end  of  an  hour  "My  darling"  stared  at  him 
from  an  otherwise  empty  page,  and  he  was  glower- 
ing out  into  the  sunlit  streets  and  wondering  why 
Kazia  wanted  him  to  stay,  why  her  indifference  of 
the  morning  and  why  his  disappointment. 

All  along,  it  seemed,  he  had  been  taking  an  un- 
conscious impression  of  her,  which  the  acid  of  vex- 
ation now  developed.  She,  for  instance,  when  she 
spoke  in  that  low-pitched  musical  voice,  had,  not 
an  accent,  but  a  quaintly  unusual  fashion  of  drop- 
ping her  words  that  was — not  to  go  out  of  his  lim- 
ited vocabulary — "very  nice."  Her  face  was  really 
finely  made,  even  in  the  judgment  of  one  who  had 
certain  cameo-like  features  in  mind;  she  seemed  a 
cut,  several  cuts,  above  the  plodding  Roman  and  his 
family.  In  her  direct-gazing  eyes,  he  now  remem- 
bered, were  sometimes  a  fearlessness,  a  smoldering 
restlessness  that  suggested  many  possibilities  to 
a  youth  into  whose  blood  the  fever  of  spring  had 
crept.  When  he  thought  of  it,  he  was  surprised 
that  he  had  not  earlier  perceived  her  prettiness ;  and 
that  other  youths  had  not  discovered  her — he  took 
it  for  granted  they  had  not.  He  now  gave  her  in- 
dustry and  efficiency,  qualities  of  which  the  mills 
were  teaching  him  the  value,  a  more  than  perfunc- 
tory appreciation. 

Another  hour  he  spent  cataloguing  her  faults  and 
virtues  and  charms.     He  was  rather  proud  of  this 


94    THE   AMBITION   OF    MARK   TRUITT 

new-found  gift  of  analysis.  He  did  not,  however, 
apply  it  to  the  interest  that  had  grown  up  over- 
night, that  grew  as  he  analyzed.  Nor  did  he  look 
on  it  as  the  beginning  of  unfaith.  His  love  for 
Unity  was  a  fact  fixed,  unchangeable  as  the  stars 
in  their  courses.  An  intruding  question  he  snubbed 
with  the  answer  that  a  lonesome  mood  had  come 
suddenly  upon  him,  that  he  needed  company,  any- 
body's company.  Had  he  said  "any  girl's  company," 
it  would  have  been  partly  true. 

A  youth  and  his  sweetheart  strolled  by  below  him. 
The  sight,  the  music  of  their  laughter,  aggravated 
his  restlessness  and  gave  him  an  idea. 

"That's  it,  exactly.  I  will  go  down  and  get 
Kazia  and  take  a  walk  in  the  park.  Poor  girl!  I 
expect  she  needs  company,  too." 

He  found  her  in  the  dining-room — and  already 
attired  for  holiday  sauntering!  A  ladies'  seminary 
graduate  might  have  been  stirred  to  criticism  of 
the  cheap  white  dress  and  coarse  straw  hat  with 
its  single  blue  ribbon;  he  was  not.  We  may  doubt 
that  he  saw  them  at  all,  for  her  eyes  were  dancing 
and  her  lips  smiling  mischievously  at  Piotr,  who  sat 
in  one  corner,  nursing  his  club  foot  and  glaring 
fiercely  at  her.  She  could  be  gay,  then ! 

But  the  smile  disappeared  upon  his  entrance. 
Nevertheless,  "Kazia,"  he  announced  boldly,  "we're 
going  walking  in  the  park." 

"Are  we?" 

"Well,  aren't  we?"  He  modified  his  sultanesque 
air  a  little.  "I'd  like  you  to  come." 


MELTING   ORE  95 

"No." 

"She's  going  with  Jim  Whiting,"  Piotr  explained 
grumpily.  "He's  her  fellow." 

"Oh!"  Mark  blinked  stupidly.  Evidently  other 
youths  had  discovered  her.  It  was  strangely  dis- 
turbing. 

He  recovered  himself,  grinning  wryly.  "Serves 
me  right.  I  took  too  much  for  granted,  didn't  I? 
I'm  sorry." 

"I'll  go  with  you,"  Piotr  volunteered  promptly. 

"Oh,  all  right.    Come  along,  Piotr." 

"Pete,"  corrected  Piotr.    "In  a  minute." 

So,  though  not  as  he  had  planned,  Mark  sallied 
forth  into  the  golden  afternoon.  Piotr,  anxious  to 
impress  this  wonderful  boarder  whose  learning  made 
light  of  the  difficulties  of  Messrs.  A,  B  and  C  and 
defied  the  intricacies  of  the  subjunctive,  talked,  at 
first  shyly,  then  more  freely;  mostly  of  himself,  this 
being  one  of  the  two  subjects  in  which  he  was  deeply 
interested.  Mark  let  him  ramble  on  and  listened  to 
his  own  thoughts,  which  chiefly  concerned  Kazia. 
He  ruefully  wished  that  he  had  not  been  so  ready 
to  assume  her  assent. 

Piotr's  ambition,  the  monologue  developed,  soared 
high;  it  included  notable  achievements  as  a  labor 
leader,  although  his  notions  of  the  historic  conflict 
were  a  little  vague. 

"Are  you  union?"  he  interrupted  his  outpouring 
of  desire  to  ask.  By  this  time  they  were  in  the 
park,  that  rendezvous  of  lovers. 

"Am  I  what?"  Mark  had  not  heard  the  preamble. 


96    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK   TRUITT 

"Are  you  for  the  union?" 

"Oh!    No,  I'm  not" 

Piotr's  face  fell.  "The  men,"  he  remarked  sagely, 
"ought  to  stand  together  against  the  greedy  capi- 
talists." 

"But  suppose  you  want  to  be  a  capitalist?" 

"I'd  rather  be  a  labor  leader.  I  guess  I  couldn't 
be  a  capitalist,"  Piotr  naively  confessed. 

Mark  laughed.  "If  there  weren't  any  greedy 
capitalists,  Peter,  there'd  be  no  chance  for  the  labor 
leader." 

Piotr's  brow  knitted  over  this  novel  problem,  as 
tangled  as  the  exploits  of  A. 

"Where,"  Mark  asked  curiously,  "did  you  get 
these  notions?" 

"I  heard  a  man  talking  to  father.  Father,"  Piotr 
admitted  sadly,  "doesn't  care.  He's  just  Hunky.  He 
thinks  if  he  can  work  all  the  time  and  gets  his  pay 
regular,  it's  all  right." 

Mark  answered  with  another  laugh.  Piotr  looked 
up  sharply,  a  painful  suspicion  stirring  that  knowl- 
edge of  the  classics  did  not  give  a  man  all.  The 
flood  of  confidences  ceased. 

And  then,  as  they  passed  the  mouth  of  a  little 
dell,  they  were  halted  by  this  tableau:  Kazia  lean- 
ing against  a  tree  and  Jim  Whiting  at  her  feet 
tying  the  shoe-lace  that  had  come  loose.  He  was 
unconscionably  long  about  it,  Mark  thought.  He 
must  have  said  something,  for  she  laughed,  a  clear 
ringing  note.  The  kneeling  gallant  arose.  Mark  saw 
a  man  two  or  three  years  his  senior,  not  ill-looking 


MELTING    ORE  97 

despite  his  too  heavy  lips  and  loose  jaw  and  "sporty" 
clothes.  Mark  disliked  him  at  once.  Whiting  took 
Kazia's  arm  and  led  her  slowly  along  the  dell. 

"Psiakrew!"  muttered  Piotr,  in  the  Pole's  deadly 
insult. 

The  homely  face  was  pale,  convulsed  with  hate 
and  a  real  suffering.  Even  Mark,  self-absorbed, 
could  see  that.  He  patted  the  boy  on  the  shoulder. 

"Never  mind,  Pete.  She  can't  think  much  of 
him." 

"He's  not  fit  for  her,"  Piotr  cried. 

"Right !"    Mark  agreed  firmly. 

Piotr  went  further.     "Nobody's  fit  for  her." 

"Kazia's  a  mighty  nice  girl,"  Mark  declared,  less 
sweepingly. 

"Yes,  she's  nice.  And  she's  smart,  too,  smarter'n 
me.  She's  smart  as  you."  Piotr  looked  up  fiercely, 
as  if  expecting  contradiction. 

"Sure,  she  is!  But  I'm  afraid,"  very  casually, 
this,  "she  doesn't  like  me  very  well." 

Piotr  jumped  at  the  bait.  "She  thinks  you're 
stuck-up  and  selfish,"  he  explained.  "And  she's  al- 
ways afraid  everybody,  'cept  Jim  Whiting,  '11  look 
down  on  her  because  her  mother" — Piotr  flushed — 
"wasn't  married." 

So  that  was  the  reason  for  her  outburst  of  the 
night  before.  Poor  Kazia!  Mark  had  not  needed 
to  go  out  of  virtuous  Bethel  to  learn  the  lot  of 
Hagar's  children. 

"Do  you  look  down  on  her?"  Piotr  demanded 
aggressively. 


98    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

"Of  course  not!  And  you  needn't  -be  ashamed 
of  her,  either — it  isn't  her  fault,  is  it?  I  don't  like," 
Mark  said  slowly,  "to  see  her  with  that  Whiting. 
I  wish — I  wish  she  liked  me  a  little  better." 

He  did  not  see  the  startled  questioning  look  Piotr 
gave  him. 

"Kazia,"  asserted  the  boy,  "never  changes.  I'm 
going  home." 

They  strolled  homeward,  each  moodily  silent.  As 
a  holiday,  Mark  mused,  the  day  had  been  less  than 
a  success.  He  wondered  how  one  went  about  to 
earn  a  smile  from  Kazia. 

A  close  observer — such  as  Kazia — might  have 
noted  during  the  following  days,  not  a  humility,  but 
a  perceptible  shrinking  of  his  assurance. 

A  foretaste  of  summer  came  to  the  city  that  week. 
Out  of  a  clear  sky  the  sun  shone  strongly.  A  hot 
southwest  wind  blew.  Leaf  and  blossom  leaped  to- 
ward fulness.  Children  played  merrily,  passers-by 
on  the  streets  smote  each  other  boyishly  on  shoulders 
and  spoke  of  the  perfect  weather.  In  the  mills  the 
steel-workers,  craftsmen  in  heat,  sweltered  and  suf- 
fered— and  toiled  on. 

Even  on  night  turn  they  felt  it.  More  than  ever 
did  Mark's  country-bred  body  pine  for  the  sweet 
fresh  air,  his  eyes  for  the  restful  green  of  the  hills. 
No  chill  draft,  reviving  if  dangerous,  swept  in  to 
temper  the  hot  breath  of  his  furnace.  Despite  the 
comfortable  quarters  and  nourishing  food,  now 
his  strength  lagged  painfully;  his  scorched  face  be- 


MELTING   ORE  99 

came  haggard.  And  each  morning  he  dragged  him- 
self wearily  homeward,  blind  to  the  day's  beauty. 

But  he  did  not  forget  Kazia. 

Always  a  leech-like  Piotr  awaited  his  return,  with 
problems  to  be  solved  and  paragraphs  to  be  con- 
strued. Nor  did  he  wait  in  vain.  Every  morning 
Mark  patiently  sacrificed  an  hour  pf  the  needed 
sleep  on  the  altar  of  the  boy's  rare  stupidity.  He 
did  not  look  to  Piotr's  gratitude  for  his  reward. 

The  direct  charge  into  the  mouth  of  the  enemy's 
cannon  is  spectacular  and  heroic,  but  the  great 
strategists  have  relied  upon  the  movement  in  flank. 
On  Friday  Mark  came  within  sight  of  the  coveted 
position. 

"There's  three  problems  and  a  whole  page  of  in- 
direct discourse,"  the  scholar  announced.  He  added 
the  complaint,  "You're  late." 

"All  right,"  Mark  sighed.     "Bring  'em  out." 

Then  Kazia  spoke  her  protest.  "Piotr,  can't  you 
see  he's  tired?" 

"But  I  can't  do  'em."  Piotr  became  sulky  at 
once.  "And  I  haven't  failed  once  this  week." 

"Piotr,  you're  a  greedy  Hunky  pig.  Don't  you 
do  it,"  she  turned  to  Mark.  "Sunday's  the  double 
turn." 

Was  this  the  olive-branch?  Nothing  then  could 
have  persuaded  him  to  give  up  the  hour  with  Piotr. 
But  he  saw  an  opening;  he  unlimbered  a  big  gun 
and  sent  one  shell  screaming  toward  her  camp. 
"You,"  he  said  with  crushing  dignity,  "will  be  walk- 


ioo    THE   AMBITION    OF   MARK  TRUITT 

ing  in  the  park  and  won't  care.     Piotr,  we're  losing 
time." 

She  turned  away  so  quickly  that  he  could  not 
judge  his  marksmanship.  The  lesson  began  and 
lasted  until  Piotr  rushed  off  to  school. 

The  double  turn  came  and  was  dully  endured,  as 
are  most  of  life's  dreaded  trials  when  they  actually 
present  themselves.  But  even  Roman  showed  the 
effects  of  the  long  strain.  When  he  reached  home 
he  began  at  once  to  drown  his  fatigue  in  huge  po- 
tations. Mark  went  to  his  room. 

Thefe  a  surprise  awaited  him :  clean  clothes, 
neatly  laid  out — also  Kazia,  who  had  just  completed 
this  kindly  service. 

"I  thought  you'd  like  to  clean  up  before  supper," 
she  explained  with  a  new  diffidence. 

"Thank  you,  Kazia.  You  always  think  of  the 
right  things." 

"No,  not  always." 

She  moved  toward  the  door — anxious  to  avoid 
him,  as  usual,  he  thought.  But  he  had  no  spirit  for 
the  siege  just  then.  He  dropped  into  the  chair, 
burying  his  throbbing  head  in  his  hands.  He  sup- 
posed that  she  had  gone. 

But  she  had  not  gone.  She  stood  uncertain  in 
the  doorway,  watching  the  tired  dejected  figure  he 
made. 

"Not  always,"  she  repeated.  The  ready  color 
mounted.  "Sometimes  I'm— cranky  when  I  don't 
want  to  be." 


MELTING   ORE  101 

He  glanced  up,  bewildered  by  this  sudden  strik- 
ing of  colors. 

"You  look  awful  tired,"  she  went  on  hurriedly. 

He  nodded  stupidly,  trying  to  grasp  the  fact  that 
for  once  she  was  neither  hostile  nor  indifferent.  "It's 
the  heat." 

"It'll  be  worse  in  summer.  It  hurts  even  Uncle 
Roman  then.  You  can't  stand  it." 

He  roused  himself.  "Yes,  I  can  stand  it — be- 
cause I  will."  Richard  Courtney  would  have  de- 
tected a  new  firmness  in  the  line  of  the  grimly  shut 
mouth.  "Several  thousand  men  stand  it  every  sum- 
mer." 

"I  hope  so,"  she  answered  gravely.  "When  you 
say  it  that  way,  you  make  me  think  you  can." 

"I  say  it  to  make  myself  think  so,  I  guess."  He 
laughed  shortly.  Then  he  observed  that  she  was 
wearing  her  white  dress ;  the  reason,  of  course,  was 
obvious. 

"Was  it  a  nice  walk  to-day?" 

"I  didn't  go." 

"Oh!"  He  leaned  forward,  very  eagerly  for  an 
exhausted  man.  "Kazia,  do  you  still  think  I'm 
stuck-up  and  selfish?" 

She  shook  her  head  slowly  "You've  been  so  nice 
to  Piotr  this  week,  when  you've  been  so  tired." 

"Kazia — "  Before  that  honest  gaze  he,  too,  had 
to  be  honest.  "Kazia,  I  did  it  to  make  you  think 
that.  But  it  was  to  help  him  you  wanted  me  to  stay, 
wasn't  it?" 


102     THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK   TRUITT 

"No,  it  wasn't." 

"Then  why?" 

Her  eyes  looked  unwaveringly  into  his.  "I  don't 
know,"  she  said  slowly.  "Because  you're  different, 
I  guess.  You  know  things.  You — "  A  queer 
little  frown  of  puzzlement  furrowed  the  pretty 
brow  as  she  groped  for  the  words.  She  sighed 
impatiently,  for  the  groping  was  fruitless.  "You're 
just — different.  I  thought  /  could  learn  something 
from  you — mebby." 

"But  you've  been  so — grouchy."  He  smiled  to 
relieve  this  charge  of  undue  gravity. 

"I  thought  you  didn't  like  us.  And,"  she  made 
a  little  shrinking  motion,  "I  was  afraid  when  you 
found  out  I  am — " 

"Don't !"  He  sprang  to  his  feet  and  went  quickly 
to  her.  "Don't  say  it!  You're — Kazia.  Do  you 
understand?  That's  enough  for  me.  It's  a  great 
deal,  I  think." 

She  said  nothing,  but  looked  wonderingly  at  him. 
He  was  dirty  just  then  and  clad  in  his  homely 
working  clothes,  his  face  scorched  and  roughened 
by  the  furnace  fires.  She  saw  a  young  man  such 
as  life  had  not  yet  showed  her,  become  suddenly 
kind  and  generous  and — she  felt  it — eagerly  desir- 
ous of  her  friendship. 

"Will  you  go  walking  with  me  next  Sunday, 
Kazia?" 

"Yes,"  she  said  very  gravely. 

"Kazia,"  he  pleaded  whimsically,  "you  even  laugh 


MELTING   ORE  103 

for  others — sometimes.  Don't  you  think  you  might 
smile  for  me  this  once,  anyhow?" 

A  smile  quivered  on  her  lips  and  was  gone.  But 
for  a  -breath  she  lingered,  her  questioning  eyes  still 
upon  him.  Dusk  was  falling.  In  the  gathering 
shadows  the  white  figure  gleamed  softly — strong, 
vital,  throbbing  with  the  desire  for  life  in  its  ful- 
ness—on the  threshold. 


CHAPTER  VII 


HE  SAT  a  little  apart  from  her,  that  he  might 
see  her  the  better.  It  had  been  a  delicious 
game,  spinning  nonsense  to  lure  her  forth  from  the 
grave  reticent  mood  upon  her  that  Sabbath  after- 
noon and  then  letting  her  lapse  into  gravity  and 
silence  once  more. 

He  had  found  a  surprising  skill  for  it;  he  could 
play  upon  her  and  elicit  just  the  note  he  desired. 
It  had  been  so,  ever  since  she  had  so  unexpectedly 
laid  down  her  hostility.  But  he  was  not  quite  sure 
which  of  the  two  Kazias  he  liked  the  better :  her  of 
the  clear  ringing  laugh  with  its  hint  of  daring;  or 
the  subdued  pensive  maid  whose  eyes  wistfully 
sought  the  horizon. 

The  softer  mood  was  upon  her  then.  She  sat, 
chin  cupped  in  both  hands,  gazing  out  over  the  un- 
dulating acres  of  close-cropped  greensward. 

"You  like  it?"  he  queried. 

She  nodded. 

"Huh !"  he  boasted.  "You  ought  to  see  the  hills 
up  in  Bethel.  They  don't  look  like  they'd  just  been 
to  the  barber's.  And  you  can  always  smell  flowers 
somewhere."  He  sniffed  reminiscently.  "And  the 

104 


SOLDIER    AND    MAID  105 

woods !  You'd  like  them.  The  trees  are  real  trees, 
big  fellows  that  have  been  there  more'n  a  hundred 
years.  You  can  get  lost  there.  You  start  out  with 
a  gun  and  tramp,  anywhere  you  take  the  notion. 
Sometimes  you  have  to  break  through  a  half  mile  or 
so  of  brush  higher'n  I  am — that's  where  you  lose 
your  bearings,  but  you  don't  care.  Then  you  come 
to  a  stretch  where  the  ground's  clean  and  the  sun 
shines  through  in  spots.  It's  like  a  church  on  a 
bright  day,  only  it's  never  quiet.  You  hear  wood- 
peckers drumming  and  thrushes  singing — I  expect 
you  never  heard  a  thrush  sing,  did  you  ? — and  squir- 
rels barking.  Sometimes  you  flush  a  pheasant  and 
he  tears  away  with  an  awful  racket — and  you  for- 
get to  shoot ! — Are  you  going  to  sleep,  Kazia  ?" 

She  kept  her  eyes  closed.    "I'm  trying  to  see  it." 

He  expanded  under  this  tribute.  "And  there  are 
bees.  A  bee's  the  funniest  thing.  He  buzzes  around, 
very  excited,  from  one  flower  to  another  and  then 
rises  and  shoots  away  for  his  tree.  If  you  have  a 
bottle  you  catch  a  few  and  let  them  out  one  at  a 
time  and  follow  them.  Pretty  soon  you  find  the 
tree."  He  smacked  his  lips.  "After  a  while  you 
get  tired  and  sit  down  on  a  patch  of  moss,  with 
your  back  against  a  log,  and  half  close  your  eyes. 
That's  the  best  of  all.  People  come — out  of  books, 
you  know — " 

"I  think  I  know." 

" — and  you  talk  and  have  adventures.  Of  course, 
you're  always  the  hero  and  she's  the  heroine." 

"Who's  she?" 


io6    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK   TRUITT 

"The  prettiest  one,  pf  course.  And  then,  all  at 
once,  just  when  things  are  most  exciting,  they  all 
scoot,  because — "  He  paused  dramatically. 

"Because?" 

"Mosquito  bite."  She  opened  reproachful  eyes 
upon  him.  "A  mosquito,  Kazia,  '11  bust  up  the  big- 
gest dream  a  man  ever  had." 

Such  sallies  had  not  before  failed  to  draw  her 
laughter.  Now  she  only  smiled,  and  faintly. 

"You  could  leave  that!    Why?" 

"To  make  money,"  he  responded  crassly. 

"/  wouldn't  leave  it  for  money." 

"Yes,  you  would,  Kazia.  But  I  guess  it's  more 
than  just  the  money.  You  see,  in  Bethel  there's  no 
chance,  nothing  to  do;  except  grow  old  and  nose 
into  your  neighbor's  business  and — and  want  the 
things  you  can't  have." 

"Don't  they  have  to  work  there  ?" 

He  laughed  contemptuously.  "They  call  it  work. 
I  used  to  call  it  work.  Only  those  stay  who  are 
afraid  of  what  they'd  find  out  here." 

"You're  not  afraid  of  anything,  are  you?" 

"Afraid!"  And  this  was  another  sort  of  laugh. 
"I  wasn't,  when  I  came  away.  But  now  I  am.  Only 
sometimes  you  want  things  so  hard  you  forget 
you're  afraid  and — "  A  half  forgotten  phrase  from 
Richard  Courtney  came  to  him — "And  are  willing 

to  pay." 

"Yes,"  she  said  slowly,  "I  know." 

"You  know?    Do  you  want  things,  too?" 

"Want  things!"      She   drew   a  long   wondering 


SOLDIER   AND    MAID  107 

breath,  as  she  measured  desire.  She  did  not  wait 
for  his  question.  "To  be  different." 

They  sat  a  little  above  the  carriage  road,  along 
which  rolled  the  Sunday  afternoon  procession  of 
pleasure-takers.  He  pointed  to  an  open  landau  in 
which  two  women  sat,  primly  upright,  hands  folded 
in  laps  and  faces  set  straight  ahead,  the  very  pic- 
ture of  well-dressed,  self-conscious  respectability — 
as  "different"  from  Kazia  as  anything  he  could  con- 
ceive. 

"Like  that?" 

"Yes,  like  that.  Sometimes."  She  looked  wist- 
fully after  the  departing  respectabilities.  "But 
mostly,  just  to  belong  to  somebody." 

"But  Roman  and  the  Matka  and  Piotr — " 

"They're  ashamed  of  me  and  afraid  other  peo- 
ple'll  find  out  about  me.  When  I  went  to  school 
the  other  boys  and  girls  said  things — and  did  things. 
I  didn't  care."  Her  head  went  up  and  her  voice  told 
how  passionately  she  had  cared.  "But  Piotr  told 
them  at  home  and  they  wouldn't  let  me  go  any 
more.  They'd  be  glad  if  I  were  gone.  And  some 
day — I  will  go." 

"But  where,  Kazia?" 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said  wearily.  "If  I  knew, 
I'd  go  now.  Some  place  where  they  won't  know 
about  me.  Here  nobody,  when  they  find  out,  treats 
me  like  other  people.  Except,"  she  added,  "Jim 
Whiting." 

"And  me,"  he  said  gently. 

"And  you."    She  turned  to  look  searchingly  into 


io8     THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

his  eyes.  "Don't  it  really  make  any  difference  to 
you?" 

"I  settled  that  question  once  for  all  last  Sunday." 

Her  look  of  gratitude  disturbed  him  strangely. 
He  stirred  uncomfortably. 

She  saw,  but  did  not  understand.  She  pointed  to 
the  sinking  sun. 

"See !  It's  getting  late.  I  must  go  home  and  get 
your  supper." 

He  took  her  hand  and  helped  her  to  arise.  But 
he  did  not  release  the  hand. 

"Have  you  liked  it  to-day?  And  will  you  come 
again?"  He  smiled  down  upon  her. 

In  her  eyes  was  still  the  look  of  gratitude  of 
trust.  "If  you  want  to,"  she  answered  simply. 

And  they  did  repeat  that  holiday,  more  than  once. 

There  were  other  episodes,  too:  chance — or 
planned — meetings  in  the  hall,  fragmentary  con- 
versations carried  over  from  day  to  day,  occasional 
intimate  moments  when  tasks  genuine  or  factitious 
took  her  to  his  room.  A  youth  and  a  maiden  dwell- 
ing under  the  same  roof  find  many  such  oppor- 
tunities. 

Roman  and  the  Matka,  to  whom  Kazia  did  not  do 
full  justice,  saw  a  change  stealing  over  the  girl  dur- 
ing those  weeks.  It  was  as  if  she  had  determined 
bravely  to  accept  her  heritage  and  to  wring  from 
life  the  happiness  owing  to  her.  Her  indifference 
frequently  lapsed;  she  was  sullen  rarely  and  de- 
veloped a  new  patience  with  Piotr;  she  smiled  more 


SOLDIER   AND    MAID  109 

often  and  her  laugh  had  a  soft  girlish  ring.     And 
once  they  heard  her  singing  in  the  hall. 

Roman  gaped  in  astonishment.  "Dost  hear, 
Hanka?"  he  exclaimed  in  his  own,  tongue.  "She, 
our  Kazia,  sings!" 

The  song  suddenly  ceased  and  laughter,  in  two 
voices,  rose. 

Roman  chuckled.  "The  young  ones  play  a  game. 
We  played  it,  eh,  Hanka?" 

"It  is  an  old  game,"  she  smiled. 

"It  is  a  pretty  game.  And  our  Kazia  knows  how 
to  play  it.  She  knows  how  to  love — too  well,  it 
could  be.  She  is  like,"  he  sighed,  "her  mother.  But 
it  is  good  for  her.  When  she  is  married,  she  will 
have  a  place  and  people  will  forget." 

"If  he  means  it,"  qualified  Hanka,  who  from  her 
inconspicuity  saw  many  things.  "But  it  will  break 
Piotr's  heart." 

Paternal  pride  did  not  sway  Roman's  judgments. 
"Bah!  Piotr's  heart  is  a  stone.  He  is  a  stupid 
selfish  boy.  He  loves  only  himself  and  his  books. 
But  Mark  is  a  good  boy.  He  is  smart  and  a  fine 
workman.  He  learns  something  new  every  day; 
already  he  knows  as  much  as  I.  And  he  is  watched 
from  above — the  big  boss  himself  asks  questions 
about  him.  And  he  is  brave.  He  is  not  strong, 
but  when  stronger  men  curse  at  the  heat  and  loaf, 
he  shuts  his  teeth  and  works  harder.  Since  he  is 
brave,  therefore  is  he  good."  To  Roman  the  syllo- 
gism was  perfect. 


I  io    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK   TRUITT 

Piotr  also  saw  and  in  his  churlish  boy's  heart 
plotted  rare  villainies,  which  happily  were  not  con- 
summated. 

It  may  not  have  been  prudent  in  one  cast  for 
the  role  of  Ulysses.  But  Mark  did  not  try  to  an- 
alyze his  pleasure  in  those  weeks  and  he  found  no 
wax  for  his  ears.  His  heart  said,  "I  am  young  and 
life  should  be  bright.  But  this  existence — toil,  eat, 
sleep  and  toil  again — is  eating  my  youth  away.  I 
have  a  right  to  this  little  pleasure."  So  he  drifted, 
reckless  of  the  morrow;  he  was  content  to  drift. 
The  only  real  shadow  was  that  cast  by  Jim  Whiting. 

The  weekly  bulletins  to  Unity  contained  impor- 
tant omissions. 

But  if  one  drifts  too  carelessly — it  is  a  figure  he 
should  have  understood — one  may  be  sucked  into 
the  rapids. 

One  night  he  was  in  his  room,  sleepless.  There 
had  been  no  little  chat  with  Kazia  after  supper. 
She  had  had  just  time  to  make  her  simple  toilet  be- 
fore Jim  Whiting  came  to  carry  her  away.  Mark 
lay  there,  tossing  restlessly,  visioning  the  two  in 
some  secluded  spot  where  Whiting  could  make  love 
to  her  undisturbed.  The  thought  was  not  a  seda- 
tive. He  wished  they  would  come  home;  he  did 
not  like  to  think  of  her  out  in  the  languorous  night 
with  Whiting. 

In  time  they  did  return.  The  murmur  of  their 
voices  on  the  little  front  porch  came  to  him  through 
his  open  window.  Whiting  seemed  in  no  haste  to 


SOLDIER    AND    MAID  in 

leave.      Mark    wondered    impatiently    what    they 
found  to  talk  so  long  about. 

At  length,  sleep  as  far  away  as  ever,  he  arose, 
dressed  and  went  quietly  down-stairs — with  what 
intent  he  hardly  knew.  On  the  bottom  stair  he 
stopped,  facing  the  door.  Whiting  was  on  the 
point  of  leaving.  Mark  saw  him  coolly  put  an  arm 
around  Kazia;  she  suffered  it.  Hot  anger — and 
something  far  sharper — boiled  within  the  eavesdrop- 
per. Nor  was  it  perceptibly  cooled  when  he  saw 
her  deftly  avoid  the  kiss  Whiting  would  have  taken ; 
she  laughed  as  she  broke  away.  Whiting  went  down 
the  steps,  whistling  gaily. 

Mark  was  still  standing  on  the  stair  when  she 
went  in.  She  started. 

"Oh!    Is  that  you?" 

"I  think  it  is." 

"That's  a  funny  thing  to  say,"  she  laughed. 
"Your  voice  sounds  funny,  too." 

He  had  just  been  condemning  Whiting  for  the 
indecent  length  of  his  stay.  Now  he  said,  "Let's 
go  out  on  the  porch  a  while." 

They  went  out  into  the  moonlight.  He  sat  upon 
the  railing  and  stared  grimly  in  the  direction  of 
Whiting's  departure.  It  was  past  midnight;  the 
street  slept.  From  the  valley  below  them  came 
the  rumble  of  the  mills  that  were  teaching  him  fear 
and  self-control.  He  was  silent  for  a  few  minutes, 
while  he  tried  to  master  the  ugly  thing  within  him. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked  wonderingly. 


ii2     THE   AMBITION    OF    MARK   TRUITT 

"Kazia,"  he  blurted  out,  "you  shouldn't  let  him 
do  that." 

"Oh!   You  saw?" 

"I  didn't  mean  to." 

"Why  do  you  say  I  shouldn't?" 

"He — he's  not  fit  to  touch  you." 

"He's  very  jolly  and  nice  to  me,"  she  said  quietly. 
"And — and  he  wants  to  take  me  away." 

"But  you're  not  going,  are  you?"  he  cried. 

She  sighed.     "I  don't  know — yet." 

He  turned  from  her  again.  And  now  his  eyes 
fell  upon  a  vagrant  cloud  just  drifting  into  the 
ruddy  circle  cast  up  by  some  blowing  converter.  He 
watched  it,  a  vivid  opalescent  mass  in  the  silver- 
blue  sea,  until  it  sailed  out  of  the  glare  and  resumed 
its  cold  ghostly  white.  Then  he  spoke. 

"But  I  thought —  You've  seemed  so  different, 
happier,  the  last  few  weeks.  I  thought  you'd  given 
up  going  away." 

"Yes,  I've  been  happier.  But — do  you  give  up 
the  things  you  want  so  easy?" 

He  was  not  above  impeaching  the  absent  lover's 
honor.  "You  know  you've  got  to  be  sure  he  wants 
to  marry  you." 

"I  think  he  does.  But,"  she  went  on  quickly, 
"you  needn't  be  afraid  of  that.  I  might  want  some- 
body hard  enough  for  that,  but  not  him." 

"Could  you  want  anybody  that  hard?" 

"Yes,"  the  words  fell  slowly,  "I  think  I  could." 

He  laughed  nervously.  "Kazia,  sometimes  you 
look  and  talk  so  grown-up!" 


SOLDIER    AND    MAID  113 

"I  am  grown  up,"  she  said  gravely. 

And  she,  the  unclaimed  but  waiting  waif  of  the 
various  moods  and  the  one  desire,  did  indeed  then 
seem  woman-grown.  The  white  radiance  of  the 
night  fell  full  upon  her.  She  was  looking  past 
him,  past  the  palely  twinkling  lights  of  the  hill, 
across  the  valley,  her  eyes  softly  lustrous,  as  though 
she  beheld  and  welcomed  the  passionate  woman's 
supreme  sacrifice  to  love.  He  knew  then  that  she 
was  capable  of  it,  that  she  had  been  endowed  with 
a  genius  for  loving.  He  who  should  win  her —  He 
could  not  complete  the  thought  nor  face  the  picture 
it  summoned.  She,  her  love,  seemed  beautiful,  de- 
sirable. He  could  think  but  of  the  moment. 

"Kazia!"  He  did  not  know  how  his  voice  was 
shaking.  "Promise  me  you  won't  go  away  with 
him." 

"Why  not?"    She  turned  to  him.    "Why  not?" 

"Because,"  he  began  unsteadily,  "because  I  want 
the  best  for  you.  Because — because  this!"  With  a 
sudden  rough  reckless  movement  he  caught  her 
close  to  him.  She  suffered  him  as  she  had  Jim  Whit- 
ing. "Don't  you  know  I  want  only  the  best  for 
you?" 

"I  think  I  do."  She  put  a  hand  to  his  cheek  and 
turned  his  face  out  of  the  shadow,  looking  long 
and  searchingly  into  his  eyes. 

Then  she  gave  a  little  sigh.  "I  promise — 'now." 
Her  lips  waited  for  his  kiss. 

Gradually  his  senses  cleared.  He  began  to  see 
the  ugly  treachery  of  what  he  had  done.  Sharne  and 


114    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK   TRUITT 

desire  battled  within  him.  But  neither  had  the  vic- 
tory. His  strong  clasp  slackened. 

She  seemed  to  feel,  with  the  sixth  sense  that  was 
hers,  the  change  in  him. 

"What  is  it?"    She  looked  up  in  quick  alarm. 

"Nothing."  To  avoid  her  eyes  he  caught  her 
close  again,  burying  his  face  in  her  hair,  and  yielded 
to  the  intoxication  of  her.  "Oh!  Kazia,  Ka- 
mi" , 


AFIRE 

JULY  came,  such  a  month  as  the  city  could  not 
remember,  humid  and  sickeningly  hot.  Children 
played  languidly,  always  in  the  shade,  and  flocked 
around  ice-wagons,  quarreling  over  the  division  of 
the  fast  melting,  cool  fragments.  Passers-by  on  the 
streets  saluted  listlessly,  mopped  sweltering  brows 
and  spoke  plaintively  of  their  sufferings.  News- 
papers daily  published  long  lists  of  those  who  had 
found  sudden  death.  And  the  thermometer  crawled 
steadily  higher. 

In  the  mills  the  men  toiled  on,  "speeding  up"  as 
always  to  feed  a  world  hunger  for  steel.  They  drank 
vast  quantities  of  water;  they  salted  it  that  they 
might  drink  the  more,  believing  that  in  much  sweat- 
ing alone  lay  safety.  There  were  giants  in  those 
days.  But  sometimes  they  fell.  A  sudden  drying 
up  of  sweat,  a  violent  nausea,  a  sharp  blinding  pres- 
sure upon  the  brain — in  a  few  minutes  or  fewer 
hours  they  were  dead;  their  names  did  not  always 
appear  in  the  daily  lists.  Some  that  did  not  die 
found  their  strength  forever  broken. 

They  whose  work  carried  them  before  the  fur- 
naces suffered  torments.  One,  less  strong  than  his 
fellows,  drove  himself  before  the  flames  that  could 


n6    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

set  iron  to  boiling,  believing  each  day  must  mark 
the  end  for  him.  Often  his  comrades,  marveling 
that  he  could  endure,  would  have  lightened  his  labor 
by  the  very  little  their  own  tasks  permitted.  When 
he  snarlingly  bade  them  be  about  their  business,  they 
did  not  resent;  they  understood;  men's  tempers 
played  them  strange  tricks  in  that  unnatural  toil. 

The  fierce  heat  blistered  his  naked  sweating  skin. 
The  water  he  drank  carried  out  through  his  pores 
the  food  that  should  have  nourished  him.  The 
heavy  labor  put  upon  him  a  weariness  sleep  could 
not  dispel.  The  incessant  roar,  tearing  at  quivering 
nerves,  impeding  thought,  became  in  his  over- 
wrought state  exquisite  torture.  Hate,  for  the  mills, 
for  those  above  who  drove  so  pitilessly,  even  for  the 
men  beside  him,  filled  him;  and  fear.  Once,  when 
Henley,  passing,  gave  his  careless  nod,  he  was  an- 
swered only  with  a  venomous  glare  that  summoned 
the  master's  sardonic  grin.  Mark  could  have  killed 
him  then. 

He  envied  Roman,  often  almost  bitterly.  The 
big  Pole  felt  and  showed  the  effects  of  the  intense 
heat,  but  he  was  the  same  unflurried  philosophical 
workman  as  ever,  always  with  a  cheerful  word ;  no 
fear  of  collapse  disturbed  him. 

Through  watching  him  Mark  was  beset  by  a 
new  temptation.  When  their  turns  were  ended 
Roman  and  the  men  invariably  flocked  to  the  near- 
est saloon  and  there  drank  repeatedly — whisky  and 
brandy  mostly — until  vigor  returned  to  their  worn- 
out  bodies.  It  was  a  false  vigor,  Mark  knew,  and 


AFIRE  117 

short-live'd.  But  there  were  times  when  the  thought 
of  the  hour  of  surcease  from  fatigue,  of  spirited 
outlook,  lured  him  almost  irresistibly. 

And  one  evening  he  followed  Roman  and  his 
companions  to  the  bar. 

"Whisky,"  he  ordered. 

Roman  put  out  a  restraining  hand.  "You  better 
not  drink,"  he  counseled  gravely.  "Or  only  beer." 

Mark  laughed  recklessly  and  repeated  his  order. 
Thrice  he  drank.  The  weight  dragging  at  his  limbs 
lifted,  the  misery  rankling  in  his  heart  dissolved. 
He  was  cheerful,  talkative,  soon  maudlin.  Before 
he  reached  home  the  whisky  had  possessed  his  unac- 
customed brain ;  he  was  staggering,  drunk.  Roman 
undressed  him  and  put  him  to  bed  without  supper. 
But  he  had  had  his  period  of  forgetfulness. 

The  next  day  he  paid — and  the  craving  gnawed 
more  sharply.  That  evening  Roman,  understand- 
ing, avoided  the  saloon  and  led  Mark  by  a  straight 
course  homeward.  Thereafter  it  was  his  custom, 
until  Mark  saw  the  care  and  forbade. 

"You  needn't  be  afraid.  It  costs  'too  much. 
Everything,"  he  added  with  a  bitterness  for  which 
Roman  had  not  the  key,  "costs  too  much." 

"Zo  ?  But  you  are  tiredt.  Unt  you  are  not  strong. 
Vy  do  you  not  leaf  the  vork?" 

"Give  up  now,  after  holding  on  this  far!  I  guess 
you  don't  mean  that.  But  some  day  I'll  get  where 
I  want — I'll  have  life  by  the  throat."  It  did  not 
seem  melodramatic  to  him.  "Then  I'll  make  it  pay 
for  this — on  its  knees." 


ii8    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

Roman  shook  his  head  gravely,  as  at  a  blasphemy. 

"You  shouldt  not  zay  zo.  Alvays  life  iss  the  mas- 
ter. But  you  are  tiredt." 

Mark's  indulgence  was  not  repeated,  and  where 
stronger  men  succumbed,  he  endured,  because  when 
the  need  came  he  found  just  will  power  enough  to 
carry  him  through.  The  trial  left  its  mark.  The 
gaunt  cracked  face  set  in  hard  grim  lines.  The 
bloodshot  eyes  became  dull  and  somber.  The  look 
of  youth — youth  itself — vanished. 

And  in  the  midst  of  the  ordeal  by  fire  he  fought 
his  first  battle.  At  times  he  was  almost  grateful  for 
the  physical  weariness  that  distracted  him  from  the 
inner  struggle. 

He  learned  then  how  insensibly  Unity  had  reced- 
ed into  the  background.  She  had  become  vague,  of 
little  substance ;  she  was  a  story  he  had  read  a  long 
time  ago.  But  she  was  real,  too,  in  that  she  was  a 
habit.  He  had  constructed  of  her — how?  we  need 
not  ask;  a  youth  in  love  is  an  artist  who  can  paint 
the  divine,  creating  what  his  model  lacks — an  ideal : 
fine,  pure,  of  the  spirit,  dwelling  on  the  heights.  He 
thought  he  wanted  that,  loved  that,  so  much  that  he 
judged  his  creation  generously,  made  excuses  for 
glaring  inconsistencies.  Her  coldness,  the  chilling 
disappointment  of  her  prim  passionless  little  let- 
ters, were  but  the  noble  woman's  reluctance  to  re- 
veal the  contents  of  that  holy  place,  her  heart.  The 
discontent  that  had  urged  him  forth  to  conquest 
was  a  romantic  desire  to  see  her  valiant  lover  in  the 
victorious  estate  rightfully  his.  He  was  not  alarmed, 


AFIRE  119 

consciously  at  least,  that  he  could  think  of  her  only 
as  sharing  that  estate. 

There  was  a  memory  that  accused — a  girl,  for 
once  warm  and  yielding,  in  the  last  glory  of  the  sun- 
set, clinging  to  him  with  the  tremulous  cry,  "You 
won't  forget  me  out  there?"  He  had  made  a  vow. 
.  .  .  Within  a  twelvemonth  he  had  clasped  an- 
other. 

That  other  was  both  real,  intensely  real — and 
near.  He  tried  to  avoid  her ;  it  was  not  easy.  Their 
eyes  would  meet  across  the  table;  instantly  longing 
would  leap.  He  would  come  upon  her  alone  in  the 
hall;  involuntarily — promises,  calculation  and  other 
loves  forgotten — he  would  catch  her  in  a  rough 
close  embrace.  Often  no  word  was  said  on  these 
chance  furtive  encounters,  but  when  he  went  away 
the  bond  she  wove  had  been  drawn  tighter. 

Kazia  went  about,  quieter  than  ever,  what  she 
felt  too  deep  for  words,  too  solemn  for  laughter. 
She  did  not  again  break  into  song.  But  no  one  see- 
ing her  eyes  could  have  doubted  what  had  come  into 
her  heart.  And  she  gave  to  her  lover  with  both 
hands,  knowing  no  thrift  in  love. 

Her  happiness  awed,  sometimes  almost  fright- 
ened her,  but  she  would  not  question  it.  When  her 
sixth  sense  stirred,  she  shamed  it  into  silence.  She 
saw  in  her  lover's  eyes  a  trouble  that  deepened  as  the 
days  went  by,  heard  it  in  his  voice,  felt  it  when  he 
clasped  her.  But,  hers  the  trust  of  Ruth,  she  laid  it 
to  physical  strain  and  would  not  by  so  much  as  a 
doubting  question  add  to  his  burden.  As  she  lis- 


THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

tened  to  Roman's  tales  of  her  lover's  endurance,  ten- 
derness multiplied,  and  humility.  She  devised  little 
services  to  add  to  his  comfort  and  took  her  reward 
in  service.  She  watched  anxiously  for  his  return 
and  when  he  came  she  wanted  to  weep.  She  was 
not  grown  up,  as  she  had  boasted.  But  in  the  pres- 
ence of  her  great  miracle,  girlhood  was  fast  ripening 
into  womanhood. 

He  had  only  his  scanty,  furtively  won  knowledge 
to  interpret  their  passion. 

One  evening — the  last  before  the  hot  wave  broke ; 
but  he  did  not  know  that — he  dragged  himself 
homeward,  believing  he  had  come  to  the  end  of  his 
endurance. 

"But  I  suppose  I  haven't,"  he  sighed.  "Probably 
I'll  just  go  on  and  on — but  some  day  I'll  drop.  I 
wonder  why  I  do  it!  I  wish  the  end  would  come 
soon — now."  He  thought  he  meant  that. 

Even  the  bath  brought  no  relief.  He  sat  down  to 
a  supper  against  the  very  thought  of  which  his 
stomach  revolted.  After  a  few  mouthfuls  he  left 
the  table  and  went  to  his  room.  He  threw  himself, 
still  dressed,  on  the  bed,  tossing  restlessly  in  the  vain 
search  for  an  easy  position.  His  body  was  one  dull 
ache.  The  overheated  blood  pounded  through  his 
veins,  each  throb  a  knife  that  hacked  his  brain.  His 
skin  was  hot  and  dry,  his  mouth  parched ;  fever  rose. 

The  late  darkness  fell,  dispelled  a  little  by  the 
faint  glow  from  a  near-by  street  lamp ;  it  found  him 
lying  inert  but  awake.  His  mind  was  beginning  to 
behave  queerly,  seeing  strange  shadowy  objects 


AFIRE  121 

that  moved  stealthily  about.  He  caught  himself 
muttering  to  them.  He  wondered  if  he  were  grow- 
ing delirious,  but  he  could  not  summon  energy  to 
call  out  or  arise. 

It  must  have  been  ten  o'clock  when  he  thought  he 
heard  a  light  tap  on  the  door.  He  made  an  effort 
to  speak. 

"Come." 

The  door  opened.  Some  one  tiptoed  softly  to  the 
bedside  and  leaned  over  him. 

"Are  you  sick?"  came  the  broken  anxious  whis- 
per. "You  looked  so  tired — and  you  came  up  with- 
out— speaking  to  me.  They  said,  let  you  sleep. 
But  I've  been — so  afraid." 

He  caught  her  hand  and  clung  to  it. 

"Would  you  mind  staying  a  while?"  he  whispered 
back.  "My  head  does  funny  tricks  in  the  dark." 

She  put  her  free  hand  to  his  hot  forehead.  Then 
she  gave  a  low  pitying  cry.  "You  are  sick ! — Wait !" 

She  left  the  room  quietly.  Soon  she  returned 
with  towels  and  a  basin  of  water  in  which  ice  tink- 
led. She  lighted  the  gas-jet  and  turned  it  very  low. 

"Close  your  eyes  now,"  she  said  softly,  "and  try 
to  sleep.  I  didn't  tell  any  one,  because  I  wanted  to 
help  you  myself." 

He  lay  passive,  while  she  placed  cold  wet  towels 
over  his  eyes,  bathed  his  hands  and  wrists  in  the  icy 
water  and  stroked  his  throbbing  temples.  He  won- 
dered dully  that  hands  which  worked  so  hard  could 
be  so  gentle.  For  many  minutes  they  did  not  speak. 
.  .  .  The  stealthy  shapes  were  laid.  The  sharp 


122     THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK   TRUITT 

pounding  in  his  brain  began  to  subside.  Drowsiness 
was  stealing  over  him. 

His  hands  groped  until  they  found  hers.  "Kazia, 
Kazia !"  he  breathed. 

"Hush!"  she  said. 

"It's  such  a  pretty  name,"  he  murmured  sleepily. 

"But  it  isn't  my  real  name,"  came  her  voice,  as 
from  a  great  distance.  "It's  Kazimiera,  and  it 
means  'trouble-maker.'  Only — "  There  was  a  catch 
in  the  dwindling  voice.  "Only  I  must  never  bring 
trouble — to  you." 

He  felt  her  lips  on  his  forehead.  After  that  he 
slept. 

When  he  awoke  the  room  was  dark.  A  cool 
moist  wind  swept  strongly  in  upon  him.  He  heard 
the  rumble  of  far-away  retreating  thunder.  And 
with  the  heat  the  headache  and  overpowering  fa- 
tigue had  gone.  He  drew  a  long  sighing  breath. 
Something  stirred  in  his  hand. 

Then  in  the  faint  reflection  of  the  street  lamp  he 
saw  the  figure  crouching  on  the  floor  at  the  bedside, 
her  cheek  pillowed  in  his  outstretched  hand.  It  took 
him  a  moment  to  realize  what  had  brought  her 
there. 

"Are  you  awake  ?"  she  whispered. 

"Yes." 

"And  better?" 

"All  right  now,  thanks  to  you. — Why,  you're  all 
wet!" 

"Yes."    She  rose  stiffly  to  her  knees.    "It's  been 


AFIRE  123 

storming  and  it  rained  in  on  me  a  little.     But  it's 
cooler  now." 

"And  you —  What  time  is  it?" 

"A  clock  just  struck  four." 

"And  you've  been  here  all  the  time !" 

"I  was  afraid  you'd  wake  up  and  need  some  one. 
And — I  wanted  to." 

He  half  raised  himself  to  see  the  better  this  girl 
who  counted  any  service  as  light  if  done  for  love, 
who  did  not  dole  out  her  love  as  a  trader  his  wares, 
demanding  value  received  and  more,  but  gave  freely, 
gave  all  she  had.  And  she  had  a  great  deal  to  give. 

"Kazia,  why  do  you  do  these  things  for  me  ?" 

"It  is  my  place." 

Her  place!    What  place,  then,  had  he  given  her? 

"Kazia — "  he  began. 

But  more  than  cowardice  sealed  his  lips.  She 
might  have  been  consciously  fighting  for  her  love. 
She  bent  over  and  kissed  him. 

"Hush !    You  need  to  sleep." 

There  was  madness  in  the  very  hour.  She  was 
very  near.  The  arm  that  held  her  strained  her  even 
closer,  until  her  cheek  rested  against  his.  ...  It 
was  part  of  her  heritage  to  inflame  and  to  be  in- 
flamed. 

Suddenly  he  pushed  her  away  roughly.  "Go!" 
he  whispered  hoarsely.  "Go — now." 

She  got  tremblingly  to  her  feet.  "I — "  But  her 
voice  quivered  so  that  she  could  not  speak. 

"Go !"  he  repeated.    "You  don't  understand." 


124    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK   TRUITT 

Because  she  did  understand,  she  went.  He  turned 
his  face,  fighting  his  temptation. 

There  was  a  quick  revulsion. 

Across  his  mind  flashed  the  memory  of  a  boyish 
passionate  quest  and  the  disillusionment.  It  inter- 
preted the  bond  that  Kazia  wove;  his  blood  inter- 
preted. And  for  this,  then,  he  would  have  sacrificed 
the  fine  pure  love,  untainted  of  the  flesh,  of  Unity ! 


CHAPTER  IX 

LIQUID  IRON 

THE  hot  spell  was  over. 
For  fifty-seven  years  Roman  had  toiled  as  few 
men  can  toil:  on  the  tiny  farm  that  had  been  his 
fathers',  to  satisfy  the  greedy  tax-gatherer;  in 
Essen,  learning  another  craft  under  the  master 
Krupp;  in  the  new  land  whose  promise  had  lured 
him.  Not  once  had  his  superb  strength  and  endur- 
ance failed  him ;  therefore  he  had  never  known  fear, 
had  not  believed  that  the  fate  that  overtook  others 
must  some  day  be  his.  He  had  been  very  prodigal 
of  that  strength. 

But  one  day — such  a  one  as  in  that  season  the 
steel-workers  called  cool — he  staggered  and  fell.  It 
was  three  days  before  he  could  go  back  to  his  job 
During  that  time  Mark  Truitt  was  in  charge  of  the 
furnace. 

He  who  returned  was  not  the  careful,  precise,  un- 
flurried  workman.  He  knew  fear.  He  tired  easily 
and  was  uncertain  of  temper.  The  heat  fretted  him 
and  he  worried  over  his  work.  He  lost  in  efficiency ; 
several  times  he  tapped  the  furnace  either  too  soon 
or  too  late  and  was  sharply  reprimanded.  To  keep 
up  and  to  forget  the  new  weakness  he  drank  more 

125 


126    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

whisky  than  ever.  Within  two  weeks  he  collapsed 
again. 

It  was  during  Roman's  third  lay-off  that  Gracey, 
the  foreman,  said  to  Mark,  "It  looks  like  Roman's 
done  for." 

"It  looks  that  way,"  Mark  assented. 

"It's  come  pretty  sudden  with  him.  It  does  that 
sometimes." 

"Yes."  Mark  stared  sadly  through  the  furnace 
mouth  at  the  boiling  flame-swept  slag.  The  drama 
had  become  a  tragedy.  There  was  an  element  in 
steel  of  which  chemists  took  no  account — the  lives 
and  souls  of  men. 

"He  can't  expect  to  keep  his  job,"  he  heard  the 
foreman  continue,  "away  half  the  time  like  this. 
And  last  week  he  spoiled  two  heats.  I'm  afraid 
we'll  have  to  let  him  go." 

"Yes!"  Mark's  mouth  twisted  in  an  ugly  sneer. 
"He's  given  you  the  best  he  had.  And  now  he's 
breaking  down.  So — scrap  him,  of  course !" 

"That's  funny  talk,"  grunted  the  foreman.  "Es- 
pecially since  the  superintendent  and  I've  been  talk- 
ing it  over  and  we  think  of  you  for  the  job.  That 
makes  it  look  different,  don't  it?"  he  laughed. 

"No,  it  doesn't.  Do  you  suppose  I  haven't  been 
thinking  of  that — counting  on  it — ever  since  he 
broke  first?"  Mark  turned  hot  eyes  on  the  fore- 
man. "Why,  that's  the  worst  of  you.  You  drive 
us  to  the  limit  and  when  we  break  you  kick  us  off 
like  an  old  shoe.  And  that  isn't  enough.  You've 
got  to  make  beasts  of  us,  every  man  dogging  the  fel- 


LIQUID    IRON  127 

low  ahead,  glad  when  he  drops  and  lets  go  his  job. 
Damn  you  all,  anyhow !" 

"Then  I'm  to  tell  the  superintendent  you  don't 

want  the  job  ?" 

i 

Mark  looked  again  into  the  boiling  furnace,  felt 
its  consuming  breath,  listened  to  the  mills'  strident 
voice.  Through  every  sense  he  caught  their  men- 
ace; his  spirit  cowered  before  it.  But  he  who  had 
come  so  near  to  falling  could  know  the  bitterness  of 
him  through  whose  fall  advancement  would  come. 

"No!"  he  snarled  in  savage  contempt  for  himself 
and  his  hollow  high  indignation.  "You  can  tell  him 
I'm  a  beast  like  all  the  rest." 

He  was  on  the  night  turn  then.  In  the  morning 
he  went  reluctantly  to  Roman's  house.  At  breakfast 
he  was  alone  with  Kazia.  But  there  was  no  love- 
making  that  morning.  Nor  did  he  explain  that  he 
was  to  supersede  her  uncle  at  the  furnace. 

"How's  Roman?"  he  asked  with  an  added  in- 
ward twinge. 

"He's  not  much  better,"  she  sighed.  "We're  wor- 
ried about  him.  He  frets  because  he  thinks  he 
might  lose  his  job." 

He  said  nothing. 

"Do  you  think  he  will?" 

"Yes."  He  made  shift  to  raise  his  eyes  to  hers. 
"I  think  he  will." 

"Just  because  he's  sick.    Oh,  surely  not!" 

"Because  he's  used  up.  And  when  you're  used  up, 
you've  got  to  get  out  to  make  room  for  better — for 
those  that  can  still  be  useful." 


128    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

"Oh,  that  would  break  his  heart.  How  I  hate 
those  mills!"  she  cried.  "But  don't  tell  him  you 
think  that." 

"No."  His  eyes  fell.  "I  won't  tell  him.  He'll 
find  out  soon  enough." 

She  had  breakfasted  long  before,  but  she  hovered 
about,  making  a  pretense  of  placing  dishes  within 
his  reach,  until  she  stood  at  his  side.  She  put  out 
her  hand  and  touched  his  hair.  His  head  moved 
restively.  The  hand  fell.  For  an  instant  her  lips 
quivered.  But  she  waited  until  perforce  he  looked 
up  to  her  again. 

"Will  you  tell  me,"  she  said,  "what  is  the  mat- 
ter?" 

"Nothing."    He  lied  ineptly. 

"You've  been  different — since  that  night.  Is  it — • 
Is  it  because  you  don't  want  me  any  more?" 

"It  isn't  that!" 

"Is  it  because  you've  found  you  never  did  really 
want  me?" 

"It  isn't  that." 

"I'd  rather  you'd  tell  me,  if  it's  so,"  she  persisted 
bravely.  "I  hope  it  isn't  so.  Sometimes  I  think  I'd 
die,  if  it  was  so.  I  know  I  wouldn't,  any  more  than 
Uncle  Roman  will  die  if  he  loses  his  job.  But  I'd 
want  to.  Ever  since  you  came — since  you — you 
said  you  wanted  me,  things  have  been  so  different. 
I've  forgotten  everything  else.  But  if  you — since 
that  night — " 

"Don't !"  He  dropped  his  head  on  his  arms.  "Oh, 
Kazia,  if  you  only  knew  what  a  beast  I  am — " 


LIQUID    IRON  129 

She  did  not  understand.  But  she  saw  that  he  was 
deeply  troubled.  She  fell  to  her  knees  and  threw 
both  arms  around  him,  drawing  his  head  close  to 
hers. 

"Don't  say  that !  You're  not  that.  And  if — if  you 
are,  I  don't  care — I  love  you  so  much.  Is  it  be- 
cause— that  night  you  wanted  me — that  way?  Be- 
cause I — I  don't  care  for  that  either.  I,"  her  voice 
sank  to  a  whisper,  "I  love  you  so  I'm  glad  when 
you  want  me  any  way." 

"What  do  you  know,"  he  cried  roughly,  "about 
wanting?  Don't  you  know  there  isn't  anything  you 
want  that  you  can  have  without  hurting  somebody  ? 
I  don't  want  to  hurt  you,  Kazia — I  don't  want  to 
hurt  anybody.  But  I — " 

He  threw  off  her  clasp  and  rose  abruptly. 

"There's  no  use  talking.  I've  thought  about  it  till 
I'm  almost  crazy — and  I  always  come  back  to  the 
same  place." 

He  left  her,  a  little  heap  on  the  floor,  staring  after 
him  with  hurt  frightened  eyes. 

He  flung  himself  on  his  bed.  The  cup  of  his  mis- 
ery, he  thought,  was  full. 

"Why  is  it?"  he  demanded  complainingly. 

Life  was  continually  presenting  to  him  dramatic 
issues,  complex  choices,  and  exacting  for  every 
alternative  a  heavier  price  than  he  was  willing  to 
pay.  He  was  very  tragic  about  it.  He  blamed  life, 
not  wholly  without  cause;  himself,  perhaps  natur- 
ally, not  at  all. 

Conscience,  sentiment  and  desire  badgered  him  to 


130    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK   TRUITT 

desperation.  It  ended  as  might  have  been  expected. 
"I  will  take  what  I  want  most,"  he  cried,  "and  let 
the  others  go." 

Roman  did  not  go  back  to  work  until  his  shift 
was  on  day  turn  again.  Some  presentiment  of  the 
impending  calamity  must  have  come  to  him,  for  as 
he  and  Mark  set  out  for  the  mills  that  morning  the 
irritability  that  had  marked  him  since  his  first  col- 
lapse gave  way  to  a  deep  dejection.  It  was  a  silent 
journey.  Sometimes  Roman,  feeling  the  sharp  fangs 
of  envy,  looked  covertly  at  the  younger  man  to 
whom  he  had  given  so  freely  of  his  knowledge  and 
who  had  in  lieu  of  strength  something  that  he,  the 
giant,  had  not.  And  Roman  was  no  longer  a  giant 
— because  he  knew  it.  Out  of  his  muscles  had  gone 
the  vital  force,  out  of  his  heart  the  sustaining  cour- 
age. He  dreaded  the  cruel  labor  less  only  than  its 
loss. 

It  was  not  until  they  were  entering  the  mill  shed 
that  Mark  said,  "Roman,  I  think  Gracey  wants  to 
see  you."  He  tried  to  make  it  very  gentle. 

"Zo?"  Roman  halted,  looked  intently  at  Mark. 
He  drew  a  long  whistling  breath.  "Zo!"  He 
understood.  But  his  presentiment  had  not  told  him 
how  deep  the  hurt  would  be. 

He  tried  to  look  the  man  he  had  been.  But  his 
tired  lack-luster  eyes  belied  the  stiffly  martial  shoul- 
ders and  firm  step.  He  went  straight  to  the  fore- 
man. 

"Mine  chop?"  he  asked  steadily.  "You  vill  take 
it  avay  ?" 


LIQUID    IRON  131 

"I'm  afraid  we'll  have  to  let  you  go,  Roman." 

"Unt  vy?"    There  was  no  complaint. 

"You're  laying  off  too  much,"  the  foreman  an- 
swered bluntly.  "And  you're  getting  careless  in 
your  work.  You've  lost  your  grip." 

"I  haf  been  zick.  Meppy,"  Roman  made  an  effort 
to  speak  the  confidence  he  did  not  feel,  "meppy  I'll 
get  better." 

"I  hope  so.  You've  been  a  good  man  in  your 
time.  But  I  don't  think  so.  You're  getting  too  old 
for  the  work."  Gracey  was  still  young;  he  could 
speak  carelessly  of  growing  old. 

"In  my  time!  Oldt!"  Roman  repeated  slowly. 
"I  haf  not  beliefedt  zo." 

He  did  not  wince.  But  the  shoulders  he  had  been 
holding  so  bravely  erect  sagged.  He  looked  dully 
past  the  foreman,  along  the  batteries  of  furnaces 
with  their  crews  of  young,  still  sturdy  men.  He  be- 
came acutely  conscious  of  the  burden  that  had  fas- 
tened upon  him  since  his  first  sickness.  He  knew 
now  what  it  was.  He  had  seen  it  come  upon  other 
men,  so  gradually,  so  stealthily  that  they  did  not 
perceive  it  until  they  crumpled  under  its  weight. 

"Oldt!    Itisszo." 

He  started  to  move  away,  but  the  foreman  called 
him  back. 

"See  here,  Roman,"  he  said  with  rough  kindness. 
"You've  always  drawn  good  pay.  And  you've  quite 
a  bit  laid  by,  I  hear.  Why  don't  you  go  back  to  your 
own  country  and  take  it  easy  the  rest  of  your  life  ?" 


133    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

Roman  eyed  him  listlessly.  "Here  iss  mine  coun- 
try. But  I  do  not  vant  to  take  it  easy.  Alvays  haf 
I  vorkedt — the  vork  of  strong  men." 

He  left  the  foreman  and  walked  slowly,  heavily 
before  the  furnaces  until  he  came  to  his  old  station. 
There  he  stopped,  watching  the  crew  at  work;  in 
particular  watching  the  figure — so  slight  for  that 
labor — of  the  young  man  who  had  endured  where 
stronger  men  fell.  How  neatly  he  fitted  into  his 
new  niche! 

"Unt  he  iss  not  oldt.     Oldt!"    Roman  shivered. 

He  went  closer  to  the  furnace,  peering  in  with 
naked  eyes  at  the  long  roaring  flames  and  boiling 
steel.  The  torrid  breath  enveloped  him ;  it  seemed  a 
caress.  It  drew  him  nearer  and  nearer,  until  his 
aching  half-blinded  eyes  saw  only  a  confused  mass 
of  terrible  stunning  light.  A  thought  stirred,  fas- 
cinated him:  the  beautiful  cruel  steel  had  eaten  up 
his  strength;  now  let  it  have  the  rest  of  him!  .  .  . 
His  slowly  moving  feet  stumbled.  He  fell  sprawl- 
ing before  the  furnace. 

Some  one  raised  him.  "Roman,"  said  a  voice, 
"I'm  sorry." 

At  first  Roman  could  see  nothing.  Gradually 
amid  the  circle  of  dancing,  stabbing  little  suns  a  face 
began  to  be  outlined  dimly,  that  of  the  youth  who 
had  taken  of  his  knowledge  and  friendship  and  then 
had  taken  his  place.  But  it  seemed  to  have  changed, 
to  have  become  mocking,  evil,  the  face  of  the  thing 
that  sapped  the  strength  from  its  servitors  and 
tossed  them  pitilessly  aside. 


LIQUID    IRON  133 

"Some  one  had  to  get  your  place,"  the  voice  went 
on.  "But  it  seems  awful  that  it's  me." 

Slowly  Roman's  vision  cleared.  The  momentary 
madness  lifted.  But  the  ache  in  eyes  and  heart  con- 
tinued. And  the  face,  despite  its  sorrowful  mask, 
remained  to  Roman  the  same. 

"Here,"  he  answered,  "it  iss  a  man  must  be  for 
himzelf." 

He  shook  off  the  hand  on  his  shoulder  and  started 
aimlessly  away,  out  of  the  mills. 

Mark  Truitt  ate — or  pretended  to  eat — his  supper 
in  the  saloon  that  night.  He  could  not  bring  him- 
self to  face  the  ordeal  of  sitting  at  table  with 
Roman's  family. 

There  was  no  sense  of  triumph  in  his  promotion, 
honestly  earned  though  it  was  as  his  world  meas- 
ured such  things.  Nor  yet  may  we  picture  him  as 
engaged  in  theatric  spiritual  struggle  around  the 
cruelty  of  which  he  was  the  direct  beneficiary.  He 
was  disposed  to  criticize,  even  to  resent,  but  not  to 
revolt.  His  physical  forces  were  at  too  low  an  ebb, 
mind  and  heart  were  too  sick  from  the  summer's 
long  battle  of  conflicting  desires,  for  further  inner 
warfare.  He  accepted  passively,  even  with  a  sort 
of  sullen  relief,  what  had  come;  at  least  it  solved, 
finally  if  not  for  the  best,  all  his  problems.  ,What  he 
wanted  was  a  straight  road  ahead,  wherever  it 
might  lead. 

But  he  paid  his  price  for  rescue  from  the  plight 
into  which  desire  had  dragged  him.  The  memory 
of  Roman's  eyes  stung  him.  And  Kazia — he  had 


134    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

not  known,  until  the  time  drew  near,  what  it  would 
cost  him  to  resign  her. 

He  walked  to  Roman's  house,  with  a  firm  tread 
that  was  the  outward  expression  of  his  mood.  He 
knew  just  what  was  coming.  He  dreaded  it,  the 
moment  when  he  must  again  face  the  man  by  whose 
fall  he  profited,  must  again  break  the  sweet  ties  this 
life  formed  only  to  sever.  Yet  he  did  not  flinch. 
He  might  rail  against  the  issues  presented  to  him, 
but  at  least  he  had  always  the  courage  of  his  choice. 

His  way  led  through  the  city's  heart  where  a  year 
before  he  had  taken  the  impression  of  the  greedy 
remorseless  entity.  The  gathering  crowds  now  were 
on  pleasure  bent,  as  tigerish  at  play  as  in  pursuit  of 
the  right  to  exist.  No  one  gave  a  thought  to  the 
roughly-clad,  not  very  clean  workingman;  his  kind 
was  a  common  enough  sight  on  those  streets.  His 
neighbors  jostled  him  carelessly  and  passed  on.  Fine 
ladies  shrank  a  little  from  him,  lest  he  leave  upon 
them  some  trace  of  the  grime  of  his  toil.  But  now 
he  did  not  care.  He,  like  the  rest,  plowed  swiftly 
along,  engrossed  in  his  own  problems,  his  own  de- 
sires, too  intent  even  to  sense  an  entity. 

There  was  none  of  the  trappings  of  tragedy  in 
the  moment  he  had  dreaded.  The  family  was 
gathered  as  usual  in  the  dining-room.  Roman  had 
himself  in  hand  once  more.  He  even  had  added  a 
new  quiet  dignity;  to  Mark  he  seemed  bigger  than 
ever  before.  The  Matka,  inconspicuous  as  always, 
sat  in  her  corner,  fingers  busy  with  her  sewing. 


LIQUID    IRON  135 

Piotr,  though  it  was  vacation  time,  glowered  indus- 
triously over  his  books.  Only  Kazia,  pale  and 
sad-eyed,  moving  restlessly  and  uselessly  about  the 
room,  gave  evidence  that  'something  out  of  the 
routine  impended. 

Mark  stopped  in  the  doorway.  For  the  life  of 
him  he  could  not  speak  the  commonplace  salutation 
on  his  lips.  He  saw  Kazia  steal  quietly  from  the 
room.  But  he  knew  that  she  stayed  within  hearing. 

It  was  Roman  who  broke  the  silence.  "You  haf 
eaten?" 

"At  the  saloon." 

"Zo  ?    You  shouldt  haf  come.    Ve  vaited." 

Piotr  snarled,  "You've  got  a  nerve  to  come  back 
here  at  all." 

"Piotr,"  Roman  reproved  him  quietly,  "it  iss  not 
for  you." 

"Of  course,"  Mark  addressed  Roman,  "you  want 
me  to  go.  I  suppose  you  blame  me.  I  blame  myself 
somehow — I  don't  know  why.  It — it  isn't  fair !  It 
isn't  my  fault  you've  been  fired.  You  ought  to  see 
that.  And  I'd  be  a  fool  not  to  take  your  job,  now 
that  you  can't  have  it  any  more." 

"Huh !"  sneered  Piotr.  "You're  glad  enough  of 
the  chance,  too." 

"Piotr!"  The  boy  subsided.  Roman  went  on,  "It 
iss  not  your  fault  I  am  oldt,  no.  But — it  iss  better 
you  go.  You  haf  mine  chop.  It  iss  not  goot  for 
me  to  zee  unt  hear  of  the  vork  of  strong  men  ven  I 
am  not  strong." 


136    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

"I  will  go  to-night" 

"I  haf  not  zaidt  to-night.  Ven  you  haf  another 
goot  place  to  go." 

"I  will  go  to-night." 

"Well — good-by,  then,"   said   Piotr  promptly. 

Mark  waited  a  moment  longer.  But  there  was 
really  nothing  more  to  be  said.  He  went  up-stairs. 

His  carpetbag  packed — a  brief  task — he  waited. 
And  this  was  hard — hard!  Now  there  was  at  least 
the  semblance  of  a  struggle. 

Almost  it  shook  him  from  his  resolve.  The  voice 
feebly  calling  upon  him  to  refuse  to  profit  by  an- 
other's fall  grew  stronger,  imperative.  It  would  be 
foolish,  sentimental,  yes !  The  chance  to  rise  might 
never  come  again  or,  if  it  should  come,  must  be  the 
same  in  kind;  and  the  cruelty  that  cast  the  broken 
man  aside  was  not  his  cruelty.  But  when  he  profit- 
ed by  it,  it  became  his  cruelty.  It  seemed  then  the 
fine,  the  nobler  course  to  refuse,  to  turn  his  back 
upon  the  unholy  riot  of  greedy  treacherous  mortals 
scrambling  over  one  another  to  win  that  which  came 
to  few  and  made  none  content.  Some  part  of  him, 
not  yet  born  when  he  came  to  the  city — that  had  not 
been  needed  until  he  came  where  men  were  many 
and  the  most  unlovely — yearned  to  follow  that 
course. 

It  almost  shook  him  because  with  that  went — 
Kazia.  Instinct,  brushing  aside  the  mist  of  false 
teachings,  interpreted  anew  and  aright  the  passion 
he  had  thought  ignoble,  warned  him  to  take  this 
whole  love  while  yet  there  was  time. 


LIQUID    IRON  137 

"Almost  thou  persuadest  me.    .    .    ." 

But  not  altogether.  His  desire — to  survive,  to 
win  his  place  among  the  masters — still  held  the 
whip,  kept  him  facing  doggedly  his  straight  road 
ihead.  And,  as  if  jealous  of  any  rival  for  suprem- 
acy over  him,  it  claimed  the  pale  lesser  love.  He 
could  not  see  the  unlettered  Hunky  girl  sharing  that 
conquest. 

When  she  came,  she  stood  for  a  moment  at  the 
door,  a  question  and  a  great  fear  in  her  eyes. 

"I — I  was  waiting  for  you,"  he  said. 

"I  knew.     But  I  couldn't  come  any  sooner." 

Her  glance  fell  to  the  bag,  rose  again.  She  walked 
slowly  toward  him.  He  rose.  Scarcely  an  arm's 
length  away,  she  halted.  Suddenly  tears  stood  in 
her  eyes.  She  put  out  both  hands  in  a  quick  plead- 
ing gesture. 

"Don't  go!" 

"They  don't  want  me  to  stay,  Kazia." 

"That's  because  you've  taken  his  job.  Don't  take 
it!" 

He  shook  his  head.  "You  don't  understand. 
There's  no  reason  why  I  shouldn't  take  it." 

"He's  your  friend." 

"You  don't  understand,"  he  repeated  wearily. 
"If  I  could  give  him  back  his  job  by  not  taking  it, 
I'd  not  take  it."  He  believed  that  then !  He  began 
again  the  old  reasoning.  "But  I  couldn't.  Some  one 
else  would  get  it — that's  all.  Isn't  it  better  for  me 
to  have  it  than  a  stranger?  Roman,"  he  concluded 
bitterly,  "ought  to  see  it  that  way." 


138 

"I  know  there  isn't  any  good  reason.  But — I 
couldn't  go  with  you,  if  you  took  it." 

She  couldn't  go  with  him!  His  eyes  fell  miser- 
ably. 

"Oh,  no!"  With  one  swift  step  she  bridged  the 
space  between  them,  throwing  her  arms  around  his 
neck.  "Oh,  no!  I  didn't  mean  that.  I'd  go  with 
you,  whatever  you  did.  I'd  have  to.  I  couldn't  stay 
here,  when  you're  gone — go  back  to  the  way  it  was 
before  you  came.  I  couldn't  stand  that."  A  little 
shudder  passed  over  her. 

"Kazia,  you're  making  it  harder — "  He  tried  to 
loosen  her  clasp. 

She  clung  the  closer.  "There  isn't  any  good  rea- 
son. It's  because  he  feels  so  about  it  that  I  care. 
If  you  didn't  take  it,  I  could  go  away  and  leave  them 
and  feel  right.  I  could  come  back  and  face  them 
and — feel  right.  But  if  you  did,  I'd  feel — oh,  I'm 
such  a  stupid  I  can't  say  it.  But  you  see,  don't  you?" 

But  she  gave  him  no  time  to  answer.  "It  isn't 
as  if  you  needed  his  job,"  she  went  on  breathlessly. 
"You're  so  big  and  strong  here" —  she  pressed  a 
hand  against  his  brow — "they'll  have  to  push  you 
up.  And  if  they  don't,  we  could  go  some  place  else. 
I'd  go  anywhere — just  so  it  was  with  you.  I  wish 
you'd  do  that,  anyway — take  me  with  you  back  to 
the  hills  you  came  from,  where  there  are  no  mills 
to  work  the  life  out  of  you  and  people  ain't  always 
afraid.  But  I'd  do  just  as  you  wanted  about  that — 
about  everything." 


LIQUID    IRON  139 

An  Arcady  that,  as  her  voice  and  his  blood 
painted  it  for  him.  The  hills  and  river — not  his 
hills  and  river  but  others,  where  should  be  no  accus- 
ing dissonant  memories — and  the  lazy  drifting  life 
with  her ! 

"You  can't  understand,"  he  cried  again.  "I've 
tried—" 

"I  know.  I've  seen  it  troubling  you,  though  I 
didn't  know  what  it  was.  But— can't  you  see? 
I'm  the  reason.  You'll  never  find  any  one  that  can 
love  you  like  I  can.  It's  all  I  know — to  love — to 
love  you.  I  don't  ask  much.  But  I  can  give — every- 
thing." 

From  her  eyes,  cloudy  with  love  and  passion, 
from  the  warm,  strong,  clinging  body  the  intoxica- 
tion was  stealing  into  his  veins,  melting  his  resolu- 
tion— 

With  a  force  that  must  have  hurt  her  he  freed 
himself  from  her  clasp  and  sank  shaking  into  the 
chair,  covering  his  face  with  his  hands.  For  a 
breath  the  scales  quivered.  Then: 

"Kazia,"  he  whispered,  "I  haven't  been  square 
with  you.  There's — there's  another  girl — " 

"There  is—  And  you—" 

After  what  seemed  like  a  long  silence  he  dared  to 
glance  up  to  see  how  she  had  taken  it.  By  then  she 
had  crept  to  the  threshold  and  was  looking  back  at 
him.  About  her  lips  a  dazed,  foolish  little  smile 
was  playing.  And  her  eyes  were  the  eyes  of  one 
who  had  just  seen  a  great  horror. 


140    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

When  he  looked  up  again,  she  was  gone. 

An  hour  later — how  he  could  not  have  told — he 
found  himself  wandering  in  the  streets,  carrying  his 
ancient  carpetbag. 


CHAPTER  X 

WOUNDED  ON  THE  FIELD 

THE  accident  was  one  that  happened  often. 
Occasionally,  after  a  tap,  water  would  be 
turned  into  the  cinder-pit  that  the  cooling  slag 
might  harden  and  be  broken  without  delay.  Not 
seldom  the  water  would  be  conveyed  under  the 
crust,  come  into  contact  with  the  still  molten  slag 
and  be  converted  suddenly  into  steam.  Then  there 
would  be  an  explosion.  Men  might  be  seriously  in- 
jured, or  even  killed,  which  was  very  sad — but 
one  of  the  hazards  of  the  employment.  It  hap- 
pened when  Mark  had  been  following  his  straight 
road  ahead  for  more  than  five  years. 

Five  years  during  which  he  had  won  success,  sub- 
stantial if  not  brilliant !  The  lack  of  brilliancy  might 
have  been  disputed  by  those  few  who  knew  that 
sundry  labor-saving  devices  installed  in  the  Quinby 
mills  during  this  period  were  of  his  invention.  If 
rigid  adherence  to  the  routine — toil,  eat,  sleep  and 
toil  again — constitutes  brilliancy,  this  flattering 
view  may  be  accepted.  How  little  do  our  private 
dramas,  which  seem  so  tremendous  to  us,  disturb 
the  habits  that  are  our  outward  life! 

It  is  certain  that  his  fellow  boarders — who  after- 
Hi 


142     THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK   TRUITT 

ward  were  wont  to  speak  easily  of  the  acquaint- 
ance— would  as  soon  have  associated  him  with  the 
idea  of  a  brilliant  career  as  with  that  of  romance. 
And  both  ideas  were  palpably  absurd  when  applied 
to  him — the  serious,  methodical,  unsociable  fellow, 
always  carelessly  dressed,  just  one  of  the  young  men, 
indistinguishable  among  the  regiments  of  their  fel- 
lows, who  had  come  to  the  city  trusting  to  the  prom- 
ise it  would  never  fulfil.  What  could  the  boarders 
know  of  the  straight  road  ahead  or  of  whither  it 
led?  His  landlady  may  have  had  an  inkling  from 
the  promptness  of  his  payments.  Certainly  attor- 
neys and  real  estate  agents,  who  saw  him  taking 
toll  of  the  growing  city's  needs,  perhaps  could  make 
a  guess.  And  Thomas  Henley  knew. 

As  for  Mark,  he  did  not  swerve;  he  was  never 
tempted  to  swerve.  If  an  occasional  question  ob- 
truded or  doubt  lurked,  when  he  was  allowed  to 
peep  behind  the  scenes  of  another's  drama,  it  was 
quickly  banished.  No  dramatic  issues  of  his  own 
were  presented,  no  complex  choices.  One  day  was 
much  like  another,  a  narrow,  machine-like,  exhaust- 
ing existence,  in  which  in  time  habit  took  the  place 
of  determination  and  enthusiasm,  and  absorption 
served  for  happiness. 

When  Henley  heard  of  the  accident  he  frowned; 
Henley  detested  accidents,  which  spoke  of  ineffi- 
ciency somewhere.  But  when  the  information  was 
added  that  the  foreman  of  the  open-hearth  battery 
was  among  the  injured,  he  said,  "Damn!"  and  in 
person  at  once  called  the  hospital  and  his  own 


.WOUNDED    ON    THE    FIELD        143 

physician  by  telephone  and  through  these  agencies 
commandeered  the  best  surgical  skill  and  care  for 
that  valuable  workman. 

"Remind  me,"  he  directed  his  secretary,  "to  ask 
you  every  morning  how  Truitt's  getting  along." 

The  secretary  made  a  note  of  it. 

"Also  look  up  his  antecedents  and  get  in  touch 
with  his  relatives.  And  you  may  send  flowers — • 
with  my  card.  I  don't  quite  associate  flowers  with 
Truitt,  but  send  them." 

The  secretary  may  have  been  so  indiscreet  as  to 
look  surprised  at  this  interest  in  a  mere  foreman. 

"The  surgical  attendance,"  Henley  condescended 
to  explain,  "is  because  he's  a  valuable  man.  The 
flowers  are  because  he  almost  thrashed  me  once.  I 
do  not,"  he  added,  perhaps  superfluously,  "recom- 
mend the  example  generally.  So  few  would  have 
his  discernment  to  stop  at  the  right  point." 

The  doctors  gathered  in  solemn  conclave  and  did 
various  things  to  Mark's  shattered  body.  They 
dogged  his  steps  into  the  very  shadow  of  death  and 
would  not  let  him  die.  They  did  that,  knowing  they 
condemned  him  to  a  life  of  pain,  and  having  the  se- 
curity of  Thomas  Henley's  word  that  their  bills 
should  each  and  every  one  of  them  be  paid. 

While  Mark  still  lingered  in  the  vale  of  mystery 
that  leads  to  full  knowledge,  two  men  began  their 
daily — and  nightly — watches.  One  was  a  thin 
faded  man  who  wore  the  rusty  black  of  the  country 
preacher.  The  other  was  an  awkward,  gray  little 
man  who  would  sit  motionless  by  the  hour,  never 


144     THE   AMBITION    OF   MARK   TRUITT 

taking  his  eyes  from  the  still  form  under  the  white 
sheet.  They  said  little  to  each  other,  asked  no  an- 
noying questions  and  kept  unobtrusively  in  the 
background;  even  the  important  doctors  could  not 
well  have  objected  to  their  presence. 

There  was  a  night  when  it  was  touch  and  go. 
Once  Simon  caught  the  preacher's  knee  in  a  vise- 
like  grip. 

"I  guess,"  he  whispered,  "ye'd  better  pray." 

"I  have  been  praying." 

The  grip  tightened  convulsively.     "Pray  again." 

That  prayer  was  as  much  for  Simon  as  for  the 
injured  son. 

Mark  did  not  die.  His  broken  body  began  slowly 
to  mend.  He  passed  out  of  immediate  danger;  he 
was  even  allowed  to  talk  and  to  be  talked  to  a  lit- 
tle. But  in  the  manner  of  the  nurses,  of  his  visitors 
from  Bethel,  even  of  the  calloused  doctors,  were  a 
grave  gentleness,  an  absence  of  the  exultation  to  be 
expected  after  triumph  over  death.  He  felt  it. 

He  put  his  question  to  his  father.  "What  are 
they  keeping  back  from  me  ?" 

Simon's  glance  did  not  waver,  nor  did  he  try  to 
evade  with  a  soothing  lie.  "Ye'll  never  walk  easy 
again.  Ye'll  have  to  use  a  crutch,  leastways  a  cane, 
always." 

"It's  my  hip?" 

"Yes." 

"Is  that  all?" 

"Ye  were  hurt  innardly.  Ye'll  have  to  be  care- 
ful always.  No  more  work  in  the  mills.". 


WOUNDED    ON    THE    FIELD        145 

Mark  closed  his  eyes,  tittering  no  complaint.  But 
within  was  a  turmoil  of  protest  and  rebellion.  A 
cripple,  a  partial  invalid  for  life !  Half  a  man !  So 
had  ended  the  dreamed  campaign  of  conquest.  He 
had  survived  trials  under  which  stronger  than  he 
had  succumbed,  he  had  doggedly  beaten  his  way  to 
where  the  going  was  easy — for  this !  To  be  smashed 
by  the  forces  he  was  helping  to  tame  to  usefulness, 
perhaps  to  become  a  mere  spectator  of  life  along 
with  such  incompetents  as  the  Courtneys  and  the 
Simons.  Tears  of  futile  rage  seeped  put  through 
his  closed  eyelids. 

When  the  doctor  came,  confirming  Simon's  word, 
he  found  his  patient  in  a  sad  frame  of  mind. 

"Why,"  Mark  cried  passionately,  "did  you  pull 
me  through  for  this?" 

"Because,"  said  the  doctor,  "it's  my  business  and 
I  know  how." 

"I  wish  you'd  let  me  die!" 

"Do  you?"  The  doctor  showed  little  interest  in 
this  part  of  the  dialogue.  "That's  easy.  You're 
still  in  the  woods.  Make  a  genuine  effort  to  sit 
up  and  I  fancy  you'll  get  your  wish." 

Mark's  fingers  clutched  at  the  sheet  and  his 
wasted  muscles  tightened.  .  .  .  But  he  did  not 
make  the  effort.  He  could  not. 

"You  see!"  The  doctor's  laugh  was  half  a  sneer. 
"Now  quit  posing  and  try  to  get  well." 

Mark  relaxed,  glaring  weakly  at  the  sneering 
doctor.  He  felt  as  one  in  a  trap. 

He  was  too  weak  for  sustained  strong  emotion. 


146    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

His  recovery  was  slow  and  very  painful;  six  years 
of  driving  ahead  at  top  speed  had  left  him  but  lit- 
tle reserve  vitality  for  the  emergency.  The  mood 
of  rebellion  died  down  from  sheer  exhaustion.  He 
accepted  his  misfortune ;  but  sullenly,  with  no  swell- 
ing heroic  resolve  to  defy  untoward  circumstance. 

A  great  self-pity  came  upon  him  as  he  lay  brood- 
ing over  his  mishap.  Always  physical  beauty  and 
perfection  had  had  a  strong  appeal  for  him.  But 
he  had  not  known,  until  it  was  touched,  how  in- 
tense was  the  native  pride  in  bodily  wholeness;  nor 
how  deep  that  other  instinct,  repugnance  for  de- 
formity. He  began  to  measure  the  limitations  of 
the  cripple.  Sports  and  activities  in  which  he  had 
never  thought  of  joining  now  took  on  a  new  tan- 
talizing attraction.  He  became  sensitive  in  anticipa- 
tion ;  he  saw  in  others'  eyes  the  pity  that  is  so  closely 
akin  to  contempt,  their  little  attentions  and  aids, 
courtesies  to  weakness,  not  tributes  to  strength. 
Daily,  through  his  opened  door,  he  saw  a  near-by 
convalescent  hobbling  painfully  on  crutches  along 
the  corridor.  So  must  he  hobble  through  life.  Ah ! 
he  had  been  hardly  used! 

And  he  saw  the  half-concealed  satisfaction  of 
the  rank  of  men,  formerly  his  inferiors,  who 
through  his  fall  advanced  one  step.  He  winced  at 
that.  He  hated  those  men.  He  saw  war  from  the 
.viewpoint  of  one  who  lay  wounded  on  the  field. 

Yet  there  was  no  conscious  desire  to  return  to 
the  mills  from  which  he  had  been  banished.  They 
were  too  much  the  object  of  his  smoldering  re- 


I 

.WOUNDED   ON   THE   FIELD        147 

sentment  just  then.  He  felt  toward  them  as  the 
betrayed  toward  the  traitor.  He  had  lived  in  and 
for  them,  forswearing  the  indulgences  youth 
craves,  the  experiments  in  luxurious  pleasure  that 
he  in  particular  craved  and  had  earned.  And  then, 
quite  as  if  he  were  an  ordinary  workman  instead 
of  a  talented  young  man  with  a  fixed  destiny,  they 
had  broken  him  and  cast  him  aside. 

"I  think,"  he  said  once  to  Simon  and  Richard 
Courtney,  who  had  not  yet  left  the  city,  "I'll  go 
back  to  Bethel." 

"It  will  be  a  good  place  to  recuperate,"  said  the 
preacher. 

"But  I  mean  to  stay." 

"We  shall  be  glad  to  have  you  back." 

Mark  caught  the  note  of  doubt.  "Has  Bethel 
changed  ?" 

"They  have  cut  down  the  walnut  grove  back  of 
Squire  Martin's,  the  church  has  a  new  roof  and  there 
is  a  lightning  rod  on  the  schoolhouse.  You  would 
hardly  regard  them  as  epochal  changes." 

"Then  why  do  you  think  I  won't  stay." 

"Because  you  have  changed." 

"Yes !"  Mark's  bitterness  found  words.  "I  have 
changed — I  have  been  changed.  Here."  He  indi- 
cated his  body.  "I  guess  I'm  just  about  good 
enough  for  Bethel  now." 

The  inference  was  strong  that  Bethel  was  merely 
a  refuge  for  incompetents.  Richard  Courtney 
smiled,  a  faded  pitying  smile.  , 

Thoughts  of  Bethel  naturally  revived  the  mem- 


148    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

ory  of  Unity  Martin.  Mark  found  a  certain  grim 
humor  in  the  recollection. 

He  had  had  his  period  of  tragic  remorse  for 
Kazia.  He  had  not,  however,  let  conscience  push 
to  the  extreme  of  disturbing  the  fixed  destiny  just 
mentioned.  Nor  was  he  long  in  attaining  a  com- 
parative peace  of  mind  in  which  he  could  congrat- 
ulate himself  on  having  avoided  a  serious  blunder. 
Not  many  months  later  he  by  chance  met  Piotr, 
who  conveyed  the  news  that  Kazia  had  married 
Whiting.  Piotr's  njanner  of  narration  implied  that, 
though  Whiting  was  a  poor  refuge,  Kazia  had  been 
fortunate  to  escape  Mark.  He  seemed  disappointed 
that  his  auditor  showed  no  deep  emotion. 

Mark's  letters  to  Unity  had  continued,  at  erratic 
intervals.  Soon  her  replies,  too,  began  to  dwindle  in 
number  and  in  length ;  they  had  never  had  much  to 
lose  in  the  way  of  intensity.  And  then  he  sent  a 
letter  that  she  failed  to  answer  at  all,  leaving  their 
love  affair  suspended,  so  to  speak,  in  the  air.  One 
of  Simon's  rare  and  misspelled  missives  informed 
Mark  that  she  was,  in  the  phrase  Bethel  used,  keep- 
ing company  with  one  Slocum,  a  prosperous  young 
farmer  of  the  vicinity.  This  may  hardly  be  re- 
garded as  poetic  retribution.  It  caused  Mark  a  few 
days'  surface  indignation  and  a  secret  relief;  one 
can  not  feel  deeply  the  loss  of  a  shadow,  even  though 
one  has  paid  a  price  for  her. 

Kazia  married;  Unity,  having  jilted  him,  keep- 
ing company  with  plodding  Bill  Slocum !  His  trag- 


WOUNDED    ON    THE    FIELD        149 

edy  had  ended  in  sheer  farce.    We  do  well,  he  con- 
cluded, not  to  take  our  dramas  too  seriously. 


An  amazing  thing  happened  one  day.  There  was 
the  sound  of  a  quick  unfamiliar  tread  in  the  cor- 
ridor, the  door  was  pushed  briskly  open  and  into  the 
room  stepped  Thomas  Henley. 

"How  are  you,  Truitt?"  he  inquired,  shaking 
hands.  "I  was  going  by,  had  a  few  minutes  and 
ran  up  to  find  out  for  myself." 

"Well  enough,  I  guess,"  Mark  replied  out  of  his 
amazement. 

"Good!"  said  Henley.  "Your  father,  I  presume?" 
He  nodded  toward  Simon. 

Mark  made  the  necessary  introductions.  Simon 
said,  "Pleased  to  meet  ye,"  and  flushed  for  his  son, 
who  had  had  to  own  up  to  the  relationship. 

Toward  the  other  visitor  Henley  glanced  uncer- 
tainly a  moment,  then  held  out  a  hand. 

"Ah!  Doctor  Courtney!  Do  you  happen  to  re- 
member me?"  The  question,  obviously,  was  in 
playful  irony. 

"I  happen  to,"  answered  Courtney,  who  did  not 
share  Simon's  shyness. 

"I  remember  now,  it  was  you  who  sent  this  young 
man  to  me.  I,"  said  Henley  graciously,  "am  in 
your  debt." 

The  preacher's  shadowy  smile  appeared.  "Is  he?" 

Henley  laughed  pleasantly.    "I  fancy  he  is.    And 


150    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

I  have  a  notion,  the  debt  will  grow.  I  am  finishing 
your  job,  Doctor  Courtney." 

He  turned  to  Mark.  Simon  and  Courtney  pushed 
their  chairs  back  from  the  bedside,  that  the  great 
man  might  hold  the  stage. 

"When,"  Henley  asked,  "do  you  expect  to  come 
back  to  us  ?" 

Mark  winced  and  returned  to  the  sullenness  that 
.was  becoming  his  habit.  "I'm  going  back — home." 

The  pause  and  the  slight  emphasis  on  the  last 
word  were  not  lost  on  Henley;  a  suspicion  as  to 
their  import  stirred.  But : 

"Exactly  right!"  he  exclaimed  heartily.  "Stay 
as  long  as  necessary  to  get  your  strength  together. 
You're  too  valuable  a  man  to  take  chances.  Your 
job  will  wait  for  you.  By  the  way,  about  that  new 
charging  machine  you  spoke  of  before  the  acci- 
dent; I  suppose  the  plans  aren't  where  we  can  lay 
our  hands  on  them?" 

"No,"  answered  Mark,  "you  can't  lay  your  hands 
on  them.  They're  in  my  head." 

"An  excellent  place  to  keep  'em,"  Henley  agreed. 
"Suppose  then,  when  you're  feeling  up  to  it,  I  send 
pne  of  our  engineers  after  you  to  go  over  the  plans 
with  you?  If  there's  anything  in  the  idea,  we 
ought  to  install  the  machines  before  winter." 

"You  can  send  him,  if  you  want  to.  But  I  won't 
go  over  the  plans  with  him."  Mark  discouraged  the 
suggestion. 

Henley  stiffened.  "I'm  not  in  the  business  of 
stealing  inventions." 


.WOUNDED    ON    THE    FIELD         151 

"I'll  see  that  you  dpn't  steal  this,"  Mark  re- 
sponded ungraciously.  "Because,  when  you  pay  for 
it,  you've  got  to  pay  for  this,  too."  He  put  a  hand 
on  the  injured  hip.  "That  is,  if  I  ever  put  the  idea 
in  shape." 

Henley  waved  a  hand  to  intimate  that  allowance 
must  be  made  for  an  invalid's  humors.  "Of  course, 
we  expect  you  to  be  businesslike.  Just  what  do 
you  mean  by  that  'if'?" 

"I  mean  I'm  through  with  the  mills." 

"Who,"  Henley's  glance  swept  Simon  and  Rich- 
ard Courtney  sharply,  "who  has  been  putting  fool 
ideas  into  your  head?" 

"You,  for  one."  Suddenly  all  the  smoldering 
resentment  of  the  weeks  of  convalescence  burst  into 
flame,  against  the  mills,  against  life  which  had  out- 
raged him,  against  this  arrogant  all-conquering 
man  whom  life  had  let  work  out  his  destiny  un- 
hindered and  whose  mere  presence  in  that  room  re- 
vived the  now  impossible  dreams  of  conquest.  For 
Mark  had  planned  bigly,  daringly  for  the  future; 
as  Henley  himself  would  have  planned.  He  quite 
forgot  that  he  was  addressing  one  whose  prerogative 
it  was  to  be  met  with  meek  submissiveness. 

"You,  for  one,  when  you  come  here  because  I'm 
a  valuable  man,  not  because  I'm  a  man.  Would 
you  come  to  see  me  if  I  hadn't  a  new  invention  in 
mind?" 

"Nonsense!  You're  sick,  that's  all."  Henley 
smiled  kindly  but  confidently.  "I've  seen  men  in 
your  case  before.  You  think  you  won't  come  back. 


152    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

But  you  will.  Why?  Because  you're  a  valuable 
man — I  stick  to  that.  You've  a  genius  for  me- 
chanics, you  know  how  to  handle  men  and  you've 
got  a  sense  of  organization.  Most  men  would 
think  themselves  lucky  if  they  had  any  one  of  those. 
What  does  it  mean  ?  That  you  fit  in  here,  of  course. 
And  when  a  man  fits  into  any  kind  of  life,  he  can 
no  more  keep  away  than  molten  steel  can  avoid 
the  shape  of  the  mold.  And — you'll  find  it  so — 
there's  something  about  our  business  that  gets  into 
the  bone  and  blood  of  a  man."  He  looked  at  his 
watch  and  rose  abruptly.  "Glad  you're  getting 
along.  Don't  forget,  your  job  is  waiting  for  you." 

"But  you  don't  seem  to  understand,"  Mark  cried. 
"I'm  done  for.  I'll  have  to  go  on  a  cane,  maybe  a 
crutch,  all  my  life.  And  the  doctors  say,  no  hard 
work  at  all." 

Henley  could  be  very  human,  when  he  chose. 
"Ah !"  he  said  gently.  "I  had  not  heard  that.  I'm 
sorry.  It  makes  a  difference,  of  course." 

It  is  possible  that  Henley  was  not  thinking  of 
Mark's  commercial  value,  as  he  stood  looking 
searchingly  down  at  the  querulous  patient.  He  saw 
a  young  man  whose  peculiar  fitness  for  their  epic 
labor  had  attracted  the  master,  broken  now  and  dis- 
heartened, cowering  before  the  thought  of  a  helpless 
future.  Henley  could  not  imagine  himself  tamely 
accepting  such  a  fate. 

Unexpectedly  he  leaned  forward  a  little.  From 
his  eyes  a  commanding  flash  leaped.  He  put  out  a 
hand  and  caught  one  of  Mark's  strongly. 


WOUNDED    ON    THE    FIELD        153 

"Your  brains  don't  need  a  crutch,  do'  they?  It 
isn't  brute  strength  that  makes  you  valuable — we 
can  buy  that  cheap.  You  said  something  about 
being  a  man.  Novv's  your  chance  to  be  one.  What's 
a  little  thing  like  a  crutch  or  a  doctor's  prohibition  ? 
The  measure  of  a  man  is  what  he  overcomes.  Go 
home  and  rest,  get  your  nerve  together.  And  when 
you're  ready,  let  me  know.  I'll  find  a  place  for 
you." 

He  was  gone.  And  there  was  Mark,  who  had 
just  been  weakly  if  resentfully  accepting  defeat, 
athrill  like  a  war-horse  that  has  heard  the  bugle  call. 

The  warlike  summons  dwindled  to  an  echo.  He 
looked  up  and  saw  Richard  Courtney's  faded  wist- 
ful smile. 

"The  gospel  of  a  very  strong  man,"  sighed  the 
preacher. 

"It's  easy,"  cried  Mark,  "for  him  to  talk.  He's 
a  whole  man." 

"Yes,"  repeated  the  preacher,  as  if  to  himself, 
"of  a  very  strong  man." 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  MEASURE  OF  A  MAN 

WHEN  he  met  Unity  again,  he  had  been  in 
Bethel  for  more  than  two  weeks. 

He  had  started  out  for  the  morning  turn  on  his 
crutches,  to  test  his  returning  strength,  and  before 
he  quite  realized  it  the  village  lay  behind  him.  He 
swung  along  for  some  two  hundred  yards  far- 
ther; then  let  himself  carefully  down  on  the  road- 
side. 

He  sat  there  for  a  long  time,  baring  his  head  to 
the  summer  sunshine.  To  save  his  life  he  could  not 
keep  up  on  this  morning  his  pose  of  melancholy 
self-pity.  Mere  existence,  even  cut  to  the  measure 
of  a  cripple's  limitations,  had  its  charm,  since  one 
could  lie  on  a  grassy  bank,  look  up  into  a  cloudless 
sky  or  upon  the  restful  green  of  the  hills  and  catch 
the  strong  sweet  fragrance  of  new-mown  hay.  The 
mills,  the  hurly-burly  of  the  city,  were  far  away,  an 
unpleasant  restless  dream  of  the  night — and  this 
was  day !  Even  the  ache  in  his  hip  was  a  negligible 
matter,  since  senses  were  alive  again  to  something 
besides  pain  and  had  so  much  to  play  upon.  The 
gusty  breezes  playfully  tossed  a  little  cloud  of  dust 
over  him.  He  laughed. 

"This  is  very  good  indeed!"  It  would  have  been 
154 


THE   MEASURE   OF    A    MAN        155 

almost  flawless  but  for  one  thing:  he  was  rather 
lonely;  he  felt  the  need  for  some  one  to  share  the 
day  with  him. 

He  had  his  wish.  Down  the  valley  road  appeared 
a  buggy  drawn  by  a  lazy  heavy-footed  horse  of  the 
sort  distinguished  as  "safe  for  women".  From 
within  the  buggy  Mark  caught  the  gleam  of  a  white 
shirt-waist  and  a  sailor  hat.  Even  before  the  vehicle 
drew  near  enough  for  recognition,  he  knew  the  pas- 
senger for  Unity. 

A  slight  tremor  passed  over  him.  To  meet  the 
embodiment  of  a  shadow  by  whom  one  has  been 
jilted — or  whom  one  has  jilted? — is  at  least  mildly 
exciting. 

A  slight  tightening  of  the  reins  was  sufficient  to 
stop  that  horse. 

"Hello,  Unity !"  Mark  felt  that  this  greeting  fell 
short  of  the  dramatic  proprieties. 

"Oh!  How  do  you  do?"  she  answered  color- 
lessly. 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence  during  which, 
without  seeming  to  do  so,  they  inspected  each  other. 

Mark  had  a  twinge  of  disappointment.  This  was 
not  the  Unity  he  had  loved  so  boyishly — and  so 
briefly.  She  was  as  pretty  as  ever,  in  a  way  even 
prettier;  but  one  could  hardly  have  thought  of  her 
as  spirituelle.  Her  face  was  fuller,  its  color  deeper, 
and  there  was  a  healthy  roundness  in  the  line  of 
shoulder  and  breast,  of  the  ankle  that  protruded 
from  under  the  dust-robe.  Not  that  she  was  fat! 
But  her  daintiness  was  gone.  Mark  could  not  quite 


156     THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK   TRUITT 

define  the  lack,  but  even  he  could  see  that  she  had 
passed  from  under  the  influence  of  the  Ladies'  Home 
Journal;  in  the  item  of  dress  she  would  have  suf- 
fered from  comparison  with  the  young  ladies  of  his 
boarding-house.  Her  hair  was  done  carelessly.  And 
vivacity  had  gone  the  way  of  daintiness.  She  had 
the  air  of  having  settled  into  the  habit  of  Bethel, 
of  having  accepted  its  narrow  outlook.  A  faint  ver- 
tical line  between  her  eyes  hinted  that  she  might  not 
have  accepted  it  with  complacency. 

Therefore  he  said,  "You  look  the  same  as  ever, 
Unity." 

She  brightened  a  little.  "You  think  so  ?"  There 
was  something  almost  pitiful  to  him  in  the  way  she 
caught  at  the  remark.  She  became  spiritless  again. 
"But,  of  course,  that  isn't  true." 

"But,  of  course,  it  is." 

She  laughed  unpleasantly.  "You  wouldn't  think 
so,  if  you  saw  the  way  they  treat  me  here  now." 

"The  men?    Surely  not!" 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "No.  The  women. 
They're  so  friendly  now  and  they  don't  giggle  be- 
hind my  back.  And  when  they  haven't  anything 
else  to  gossip  about,  they  talk  about  how  I'm  settling 
into  an  old  maid." 

"Isn't  that  what  the  rhetorics  used  to  call  hyper- 
bole. It  should  be  sparingly  used.  Besides  I  hear 
you  have  a  beau." 

"Oh!  him!"  With  another  shrug.  "He's  afraid 
I'm  not  a  good  cook." 

"That's  a  nice  way  to  talk  about  a  lover!     Es- 


THE    MEASURE    OF   A    MAN        157 

pecially,"   he  laughed  self-consciously,   "since  you 
threw  me  over  for  him." 

He  almost  missed  the  acid  look  she  flashed  at  him. 
"It  broke  your  heart,  of  course !" 

"I've  had  pleasanter  experiences,"  he  said  dryly. 
"Why  didn't  you  answer  my  last  letter,  Unity?" 

Her  indifference  might  have  been  a  little  too  well 
done.  "For  one  thing,  even  I  have  a  little  pride.  It 
was  easy  to  see  you'd  got  tired  of  me.  Not  that 
I  cared !  Those  boy-and-girl  affairs  always  die  a 
natural  death.  There  was  another  girl,  wasn't 
there?" 

"Why,  I  believe  so.  In  fact,  there  was.  I  gave 
her  up  for  you." 

"And  I  gave  you  up.  You  must  have  thought," 
again  her  unpleasant  laugh  rang,  "you'd  made  a 
poor  bargain  all  round.  Or  had  a  lucky  escape  ?" 

"I  did,"  he  answered  grimly,  leaving  her  to  con- 
strue the  answer  as  she  chose. 

"That's  an  easy  conundrum."  She  gathered  up 
the  reins.  "Well,  I  must  be  going.  We're  harvest- 
ing now  and  I  have  to  get  back  in  time  to  help  get 
dinner.  Good-by." 

She  drove  on,  as  casually  as  if  they  had  been 
neighbors  in  the  habit  of  meeting  daily.  .  .  .  And 
this  was  their  meeting  after  six  years. 

He  leaned  back  on  his  grassy  bank,  having  found, 
if  not  a  companion,  at  least  food  for  reflection. 
The  brief  commonplace  meeting  had  left  him 
vaguely  uneasy.  That  disappointing  change  in 
Unity — he  supposed  he  was  in  a  sense  responsible 


158    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

for  it.  He  did  not  say,  "This  woman  is  repining 
because  she  has  lost  me,  once  her  lover."  Over- 
weening confidence  in  his  sex  attractiveness  was  not 
the  form  his  vanity  took ;  also,  he  was  less  credulous 
than  of  yore,  and  he  suspected  that  Unity  was  not 
one  to  let  the  loss  of  a  mere  love  devastate  her  life. 
But  he  remembered  how  eager  she  had  been  to  leave 
Bethel.  And  he,  who  was  to  have  been  her  path- 
finder to  that  brilliant  community  known  as  "the 
world",  had  failed  her.  Who  better  than  he,  he 
somewhat  plaintively  inquired,  knew  the  bitterness 
of  a  shattered  dream  ?  Perhaps  the  farcical  denoue- 
ment of  his  triangular  romance  had  not  been  so 
humorous,  after  all.  Perhaps  he  had  not  been  quite 
fair  to  Unity. 

There  was  a  vague  but  strong  sense  of  loss — his 
own — in  the  change  in  her.  He  had  ceased  to  love 
her,  he  had  almost  forgotten  her.  But  once  upon  a 
time  he  had  constructed  of  her  an  ideal;  his  faith- 
lessness had  not  followed  conscious  disillusionment. 
The  artist — even  the  lover-artist — sees  with  a  pang 
his  fine  creation  sink  back  into  the  form  and  faulti- 
ness  of  his  earthy  model. 

He  was  still  resting  on  his  grassy  bank  when,  an 
hour  later,  the  slow-going  vehicle  reappeared.  With 
difficulty — for  he  had  not  yet  become  expert  with 
his  crutches — he  rose  and  stood  in  the  middle  of  the 
road.  The  horse,  without  urging,  stopped  with  its 
nose  against  him.  A  more  skilled  observer  than 
Mark  might  have  noticed  that  some  villager's  mirror 
and  comb  had  been  utilized  to  the  advantage  of 


THE   MEASURE   OF   A    MAN        159 

Unity's  hair  and  that  her  hat  had  been  readjusted 
to  its  most  becoming  angle ;  and  would  have  drawn 
certain  inferences. 

Mark  did  not.  He  merely  smiled  at  her  over  the 
horse's  head. 

She  seemed  rather  impatient  with  his  obstructive- 
ness.  "You've  bought  the  pike,  then?  I  hadn't 
heard." 

He  laughed  and  waved  his  hand  airily.  "This 
morning  the  world  is  mine.  Do  you  know,  we 
haven't  shaken  hands?" 

"Oh,  haven't  we?"  Her  tone  attached  no  import- 
ance to  the  omission. 

Nevertheless,  when  he  stood  aside,  she  drove  the 
horse  forward  a  length  and  laid  a  limp  hand  in 
Mark's. 

"Also,"  he  continued,  "you  haven't  said  you're 
sorry  that  I  was  hurt." 

"Oh!"  she  repeated,  with  perfunctoriness  unre- 
lieved, "I'm  sorry." 

He  laughed  again.  "You  needn't  mind  now. 
You'll  have  plenty  of  chances  before  long." 

"Meaning?" 

"The  road  to  your  house  is  still  open  to  the  public, 
isn't  it?  I'm  thinking  of  buying  a  new  horse. 
Unity,"  he  returned  to  gravity,  "there  isn't  any  rea- 
son why  we  shouldn't  be  good  friends,  is  there?" 

"People  will  talk." 

He  paraphrased  a  classic  formula.  "Unity,"  he 
said  earnestly,  "drat  the  people!" 

"You  can  say  that.    You  don't  have  to  stay  here." 


160     THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK   TRUITT 

"But  I'm  going  to  stay  here." 

"Not  for  good?" 

"For  good." 

"Why?" 

Mark  laughed  shortly.  "When  you're  put  out  of 
the  race,  you  don't  want  to  stay  where  you  have  to 
watch  the  others  still  running." 

She  inspected  him  again,  more  closely.  He 
thought  he  was  sincere.  But  he  did  not  know  that 
despite  the  crutches  and  his  drawn  white  face  he 
had  not  the  resigned  dispirited  air  of  the  man  who 
has  accepted  a  permanent  seat  on  the  shelf.  The 
ascetic  years  had  etched  upon  his  countenance  evi- 
dences of  growth.  Success  had  given  him  self-re- 
liance. Endurance  had  written  of  courage.  Much 
close  thinking  on  the  problems  of  his  work  had 
left  the  unmistakable  sign  of  an  active  penetrative 
mentality.  Her  intuition  plumbed  deeper  than  his 
invalid's  mood. 

"Look  as  long  as  you  want  to,"  he  suggested  at 
last.  "In  the  meantime — will  you  set  the  dogs  on 
me  when  I  drive  down  your  way?" 

"Oh,  well !"  She  tried  unsuccessfully  to  return  to 
indifference.  "If  you  really  want  to  come — !  It's 
been  a  dull  season.  I  suppose  it  would  be  a  mercy 
to  the  gossips  to  give  their  tongues  a  chance  to  clack 
once  more."  She  drew  the  reins  taut. 

"A  real  philanthropy,"  he  assented,  grinning,  as 
the  horse  lumberingly  resumed  its  journey. 

Mark  swung  slowly  along  homeward.  He  smiled 
pityingly.  He  had  read  aright  the  new  interest  in 


THE   MEASURE    OF   A    MAN        161 

Unity's  face:  that  of  the  condemned  prisoner  who 
has  heard  rumor  of  reprieve.  He  was  sorry  for  her. 
And  pity — we  have  it  from  the  poets — is  love's  poor 
relation. 

Mark  regained  a  measure  of  strength.  He  dis- 
carded one  crutch  and  began  each  day  to  take  a  few 
steps  experimentally  with  no  support  but  a  cane. 
He  became  the  notable  figure  of  the  village,  greeted 
with  that  mingled  awe  and  curiosity  that  are  the 
meed  of  the  soldier  home  wounded  from  the  wars. 
He  spent  many  beautiful  idle  hours,  alone  or  with 
Richard  Courtney,  driving  his  new  horse  among  the 
hills.  It  did  not  occur  to  him  that  his  avid  pleasure 
in  their  freshness  and  fragrance,  their  hushed  whis- 
perings, their  play  of  light  and  shadow,  was  not  the 
pleasure  a  man  takes  in  a  permanent  environment. 
But,  though  Mark  came  to  regard  his  lot  with  con- 
stantly lessening  self-pity,  the  preacher  thought  he 
detected  signs  of  an  incipient  restlessness. 

Sometimes — often — Unity  was  with  him  on  these 
drives.  Tongues  clacked  according  to  prophecy. 
But  Mark  did  not  care.  And  Unity  did  not  care. 
She  even,  in  brazen  defiance  of  public  opinion 
that  almost  brought  upon  the  gossips  the  calamity 
of  speechlessness,  returned  to  her  allegiance  to,  and 
study  of,  ladies'  magazines.  By  arts  for  which  she 
had  some  skill  she  extracted  from  the  well  defended 
pocket  of  Squire  Martin  the  sum  of  fifty  dollars, 
and  thus  enriched,  made  a  journey  to  Concord.  The 
potentialities  of  fifty  dollars  would  be  believed  by 
none  save  other  prisoners  who  have  heard  rumor  of 


1 62     THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

reprieve.  The  results,  before  Bethel,  convicted 
the  squire  of  a  more  flagrant  folly  than  that  he  had 
committed. 

Mark  fell  placidly  and  easily  in  love  with  Unity 
again.  At  least,  the  while  protesting,  he  decided 
that  it  must  be  love. 

But  the  protest  was  half-hearted.  He  wanted  to 
love.  He  needed,  he  assured  himself,  love  to  fill  the 
void  created  by  loss  of  activity.  Moreover,  al- 
though he  had  come  near  enough  to  success  to  salt 
its  tail,  his  years  were  but  twenty-six,  an  age  when 
love  seems  beautiful,  all  pleasurable,  alluring;  and 
this  despite  the  still  small  voice  of  experience. 

"Are  ye  goin'  to  stay  here  in  Bethel?"  Simon 
broke  a  long  silence  to  inquire,  one  rainy  evening. 

"I  don't  know,"  Mark  answered  out  of  a  brown 
study,  off  his  guard.  But  he  added  quickly,  "Yes,  I 
do  know.  I'm  going  to  stay." 

"Then,  what  are  ye  goin'  to  'do?" 

"I  don't  need  to  do  anything.  I've  got  twenty 
thousand  dollars.  That'll  last  me — in  Bethel." 

Simon  shook  his  head  gravely.  "Ye  can't  stand 
that.  Ye've  got  to  do  somethin'.  An*  there's 
nuthin'  to  do  here — yet." 

"And  never  will  be." 

"Mebby  not.  All  the  more  reason  why  that 
Mister  Henley's  right." 

"Would  you  have  me  go  back  to  the  city  ?" 

"Yes." 

"You  don't  know  what  you're  saying,"  Mark  be- 
gan irritably.  "I  could  never  take  a  pen  pusher's 


THE   MEASURE   OF   A   MAN       163 

job.  The  mills  are  all  I  know.  And  that  life — you 
don't  know  it.  It  costs  too  much.  It  takes  it  out  of 
you,  drives  you  like  a  slave.  It — I'm  not  fit  for 
it  now.  It — oh,  let's  not  talk  about  it."  He  got 
up  from  his  chair  and  began  to  limp  restlessly 
around  the  room,  peering  impatiently  out  of  the 
windows.  "I  wish  this  confounded  rain  would  let 
up!" 

But  Simon  had  more  than  one  of  Mark's  prob- 
lems on  his  mind. 

"Are  ye,"  he  went  on,  "goin'  to  marry  Unity 
Martin?" 

"I  don't  know.    I  suppose  so." 

"If  ye  don't  find  out  purty  soon,"  remarked 
Simon  most  surprisingly,  "she'll  do  your  knowin' 
fur  ye.  I  wouldn't." 

Mark  stopped  at  a  window,  looking  frowningly 
out  at  the  sheets  of  rain  that  dashed  across  the 
square  of  light. 

Simon  must  have  felt  deeply  on  the  subject,  for 
he  repeated,  "I  wouldn't." 

"No,"  said  Mark  testily,  "I  suppose  you  wouldn't. 
I  don't  know.  But  if  I  do  it,  it  will  be  with  my  eyes 
open."  Which  seems  a  most  unloverlike  saying. 

But  he  did  know.  He  had  not  lost  the  habit  of 
Joseph.  Out  at  the  farthermost  limit  of  the  lamp's 
reflection,  just  where  it  merged  into  the  dense  black- 
ness of  the  storm,  he  beheld  a  shadowy  vision 
that  laid  all  doubts:  a  woman  pleasing  to  the  eye, 
no  heady  wine  to  sweep  a  man  from  his  feet  nor  yet 
a  cold  spirit-like  ideal  to  be  worshiped  from  ridicu- 


1 64    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

lous  postures,  but  maturely  companionable,  com- 
fortably faulty  and  with  her  subtle  appeal  to  the 
senses.  Critically,  protestingly,  but  indubitably,  he 
hungered  for  her. 

He  heard  a  step  behind  him  and  turned.  His 
father  was  at  his  side,  looking  out  of  the  window. 
Mark  remembered :  it  was  the  south  window.  Then 
he,  too,  saw  Simon's  vision,  his  own  blotted  out. 
Not  as  he  had  seen  it  on  the  night  before  he  set 
out  to  explore  his  uncharted  Eldorado,  but  with 
the  fulness  of  one  who  has  known — the  black  sky 
weirdly  alight,  the  air  heavy  with  thick  sulphurous 
smoke,  the  great  sheds  housing  the  intricate  uner- 
ring mechanism,  the  roar  and  hiss  of  elements  in 
melee,  the  sweating  half-naked  figures  toiling  be- 
fore sun-bright  furnaces  or  in  the  glow  of  incan- 
descent ingots.  .  .  .  He  saw  it  all  in  its  dra- 
matic splendor  and  he  thrilled  again.  Simon's 
dream  seemed  real  then,  possible. 

He  turned  away  quickly.  "It  isn't  possible,"  he 
cried.  "You're  mad  to  keep  thinking  of  it.  And 
if  it  was — " 

"Ye  seen  it,  too,  then  ?" 

"Oh,  it's  great  to  look  at  and  think  of,  but  it's  hell 
to  be  in." 

"It'll  come."  Simon  spoke  in  the  calm  of  a  great 
faith. 

"You  don't  know  what  you  see.  And,  if  it  was 
possible,  it  would  be  a  crime  to  bring  that  hell  into 
these  hills." 

"Ye  can't  cry  it  down.     Ye've  seen  it.     Ye'll 


THE    MEASURE    OF    A    MAN        165 

never  forget  it.  It's  like  what  Mr.  Henley  said — • 
it  gets  into  the  bone  and  blood  of  a  man.  An'  it 
won't  pass  out.  An'  I've  only  seen  it  out  there. 
But  ye've  seen  it  real.  That's  why  ye  can't  stay 
here.  I  wouldn't  want  ye  should.  Good  night." 

Mark  did  not  know  that  Simon  had  left.  He 
stood  long  at  the  window,  trying  to  conquer  the 
thrill.  And  he  could  not.  ...  A  voice  rang  in- 
sistently, "The  measure  of  a  man  is  what  he  over- 
comes." 

But  a  stronger  if  less  subtle  magic  than  mere 
visions  was  at  work. 

There  was  an  evening  when  he  was  alone  with 
Unity  on  Squire  Martin's  front  porch.  It  was  one 
of  the  soft  languorous  nights  that  sometimes  come 
to  Bethel  in  early  September.  On  the  air  lingered 
the  sweet  heavy  perfume  of  moonflowers.  Around 
them  rose  the  many  little  voices  of  the  night.  He 
sat  below  her,  in  sensuous  enjoyment  of  the  hour, 
looking  up  at  her.  Especially,  looking  up  at  her. 
She  sat  on  the  top  step,  leaning  negligently  against 
a  porch  pillar,  her  face  turned  toward  the  hills. 
They  talked  little  and  that  in  low  tones. 

Once  he  leaned  toward  her.  He  had  to  peer 
closely  to  make  out  her  look  of  content. 

"Do  you  know,"  he  remarked,  "you  ought  to  be 
glad  I  came  back?" 

"Indeed!     And  why?" 

"Have  you  looked  in  the  mirror  lately?  When  I 
first  came  you  looked — well,  cranky  and  as  though 
you  didn't  care  whether  school  kept  or  not." 


1 66     THE   AMBITION    OF   MARK   TRUITT 

"Well,  of  all  the  conceit !  I  suppose  you  take  all 
the  credit."  Thus  she  admitted  certain  improve- 
ments. 

"And  why  not?"  he  laughed  lazily.  "When  you 
come  right  down  to  it,  Unity,  you  never  really, 
definitely  threw  me  over." 

"It  isn't  too  late." 

"Yes,  it  is  too  late." 

She  said  nothing.  But  when  he  reached  up  to 
take  her  hand  he  found  it  a  tightly  clenched  little 
ball. 

"Evidence  of  strong  emotion !"  he  laughed  again. 
He  forced  it  open  and  carried  it,  soft  palm  upward, 
to  his  lips. 

"You're  so  foolish !"  she  said. 

"They  do  that  in  books,"  he  explained.  "I  want- 
ed to  see  what  it  is  like.  I  find  I  like  it."  He  re- 
peated the  performance. 

"You're  so— " 

"You  said  that  before,"  he  interrupted.  "Unity, 
do  you  remember  the  drive  we  took  that  Sunday 
before  I  went  to  the  city?" 

"I  think  I  do." 

"She  thinks  she  does!"  he  apostrophized  the 
night.  "I  have  a  scheme.  To-morrow,  right  after 
dinner,  I'm  going  to  drive  down  here  for  you. 
Unity,  let's  have  that  Sunday  over  again — in  every 
particular." 

Again  she  was  silent. 

"You  don't  agree  ?" 


THE    MEASURE   OF   A    MAN        167 

"I— I'm  not  sure." 

"That  you  love  me?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "That  I  want  to  marry 
you." 

"Is  it,"  he  shrank  back  a  little  from  her,  "because 
of  this  ?"  He  touched  his  cane. 

"No,  of  course  not.  I  think  you  make  too  much 
of  that." 

"Is  it  money?  You  needn't  worry  about  that. 
Why,  we'll  be  rich— for  Bethel." 

"I'm  sure  of  that— for  Bethel.  But  it  isn't  that. 
I'm  not  sure,"  she  sighed,  "that  you  love  me 
enough." 

He  laughed  riotously  at  the  absurd  notion.  "Why, 
Unity,  if  you  only  knew — !  What  can  I  say  to 
prove  it  ?" 

"Saying  things  doesn't  prove  them,  does  it?" 

"Then  what  can  I  do?" 

"I  don't  know."  She  sighed  again  very  plain- 
tively. As  if  she  did  not  know  exactly! 

But  when  he  drew  her  down  and  kissed  her,  she 
did  not  resist.  "Wait,"  he  whispered  fatuously, 
"until  to-morrow.  Then  you  will  be  convinced." 
Although  what  virtue  the  morrow  would  hold  he 
did  not  say.  He  probably  did  not  guess. 

Unity  did  not  scruple  to  change  the  current  of 
another's  life;  she  saw  no  occasion  for  scruples.  She, 
too,  felt  youth's  blind  impulse  to  wed,  the  enchant- 
ment of  sex  mystery.  She  thought  she  loved  Mark. 
But  she  did  not  believe  his  expressed  resolve  to  stay 


1 68    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK   TRUITT 

in  Bethel  was,  could  be,  genuine;  or,  if  genuine, 
that  its  execution  would  be  good  for  him.  And, 
principally — she  knew  exactly  what  she  wanted. 

But  there  were  no  outward  signs  of  this  certitude 
as,  all  in  white  for  their  holiday  from  the  crown  of 
her  lingerie  hat — of  which  she,  alone  of  all  Bethel, 
knew  the  name — to  the  tip  of  her  canvas  slippers, 
she  came  down  the  steps  the  next  day  to  meet  her 
waiting  cavalier.  Seeing  her,  he  said  to  himself, 
"She  is  a  woman  now.  She  knows  what  love  means 
and  she  is  afraid — of  it  and  of  me.  I  must  be  very 
careful  not  to  frighten  her.  I  must  be  very  tender." 
So — very  craftily,  as  he  thought — he  restrained  his 
love-making  to  an  occasional  incidental  demonstra- 
tion. At  the  same  time  her  reserve  goaded  his  inter- 
est ;  which  was  as  she  had  hoped. 

They  took  much  the  same  road  they  had  taken 
seven  years  before.  They  chatted  in  lighter  vein, 
with  intervals  of  eloquent  silence.  The  shadows 
lengthened.  His  senses  warmed;  the  headiness  of 
this  wine  was  doubtful  only  to  him  who  drank. 
The  game  she  was  playing  excited  her ;  reserve,  not 
wholly  by  design,  melted  a  little.  On  a  hilltop 
whence  they  could  see  only  other  hills  and  the  sink- 
ing sun  they  ate  the  lunch  put  up  by  the  thoughtful 
Susan.  Then  they  waited  to  watch  the  sunset. 

"Unity,  what  must  I  do  to  convince  you  ?" 

"Nothing,"  she  murmured. 

He  considered  his  happiness. 

And  after  a  while  she  said,  "Tell  me  about  your 
life  in  the  city.  You've  never  said  much  about  it." 


THE    MEASURE   OF   A   MAN        169 

Innocent  demand!  Not  in  vain  is  the  trap  set  in 
the  sight  of  a  young  man  in  love.  He  began  to  de- 
scribe the  mills  to  her.  And  as  he  went  on,  into  his 
words  crept  the  unconscious  eloquence  of  a  real  en- 
thusiasm. His  face  became  eager.  Before  he  had 
ended,  he  was  on  his  feet  declaiming  to  her,  who 
was  a  very  attentive  audience.  He  saw  what  he  de- 
scribed. 

"Ah!"  she  breathed,  as  he  reached  a  period. 
"What  a  life!  And  you  could  leave  it!" 

"You  forget,"  he  reminded  her.  "I  was  put  out 
of  it.  And  there's  another  side  to  it." 

"Is  it  really  true  that  you  couldn't  go  back?" 

"The  doctors  say  so.     Though  Henley  doesn't." 

"What  does  he  say?" 

"He  says,  'What's  a  doctor's  prohibition?'  And 
that  if  I  go  back  he'll  make  use  of  me.  Sometimes 
I  wish  he  hadn't  said  that." 

She  watched  him  closely.  He  was  frowning  at 
the  sunset,  which  they  both  had  forgotten.  His 
right  hand  gripped  the  cane  so  tightly  that  the 
knuckles  showed  white. 

She  leaned  forward  suddenly,  resting  her  hand  on 
the  one  that  held  the  cane.  "Mark,  why  don't  you 
go  back  to  it?" 

He  jerked  his  hand  free,  as  if  he  had  felt  a 
twinge  of  pain.  "Don't  suggest  that,  Unity!"  he 
cried.  "There's  that  other  side.  It's  hard  and  cruel 
and  narrowing.  It  eats  up  all  the  best  of  you. 
Sometimes  it  kills  you.  It  makes  you  a  machine, 
not  your  own  man.  I  used  to  feel  it  when  I  was 


1 70    THE  AMBITION  OF  MARK  TRUITT 

there,  sometimes  terribly.  Here  I  see  it  from  a  dis- 
tance and  I  understand  better.  It's  just  one  hellish 
scramble,  that  life — "  He  stopped  abruptly,  with 
an  impatient  gesture. 

"I  don't  understand — " 

"Of  course  you  don't.  You've  got  to  be  in  it  and 
then  come  away,  to  understand.  But  you  can  under- 
stand this.  The  work's  an  awful  grind.  It — in  any 
job — is  the  work  of  a  whole  man,  of  a  strong  man. 
I  could  barely  keep  up  to  it,  before  the  accident,  by 
giving  up  everything  else.  Now  I'm  not  a  whole 
man.  I  couldn't  stand  it." 

"But  you  could  try.  And  you  would  have  me  to 
lean  on — now."  Unity,  too,  had  read  her  books. 

But  he  did  not  laugh.  "The  work  would  leave 
nothing  of  me  for  you.  You  wouldn't  want  that, 
would  you?" 

"That's  just  an  excuse,  I  think."  A  little  smile 
edged  her  lips;  from  it  he  read  disappointment  in 
him.  "I  didn't  think  you  could  be  afraid  of  any- 
thing." 

It  was  a  crude  weapon,  but  it  went  home.  For  a 
moment  he  looked  angry  protest  at  her.  Then  he 
wheeled  sharply  and  limped  to  the  brow  of  the  hill. 
He  stood  there  for  many  minutes,  his  face  to  the 
sinking  sun. 

Afraid.  He  had  not  thought  of  that.  Were  then 
his  revolt,  his  righteous  criticisms  of  the  "scramble" 
but  the  disguise  of  cowardice?  The  cowardice  of 
the  man  who  can  endure  all  bravely  until  the  tide  of 
battle  turns  against  him,  and  then  flees  in  panic? 


THE   MEASURE   OF   A   MAN        171 

His  hot  cheeks  condemned  him.    .    .    .    "The  meas- 
ure of  a  man  is  what  he  overcomes." 

The  sun  went  down,  its  glory  unseen  by  the  man 
on  the  hilltop.  He  turned  and  went  back  to  Unity. 
He  looked  at  her  keenly,  sternly. 

"Do  you  make  this  a  condition?" 

There  was  a  quality  in  his  voice  she  had  never 
heard  before.  It  frightened  her.  Her  eyes  fell 
from  his.  Not  calculation,  but  fear — of  losing  him 
altogether — gave  her  a  right  answer. 

"Oh,  no,  no !  It's  for  you  to  say.  It's  only  that 
I  want  you  to — to  be  where  you  belong — dear." 

She  dared  not  raise  her  eyes.  But  after  a  long 
'silence  came  his  troubled  answer. 

"If  I  go  back,  Unity,  you  won't—?" 

But  how  could  he  phrase  his  fear  or  interpret  the 
hot  surging  that  drowned  it? 

She  sighed  happily. 
•      He  was  soon  to  learn. 

A  man  and  a  woman  entered  into  the  most  trying 
of  human  relations.  Both  were  young,  but  both 
had  hardened  in  the  pursuit  of  selfish  desire.  Neither 
had  the  love  that  finds  its  chief  joy  in  yielding.  Nor 
could  mere  sensuality  weld  them  into  one.  Where 
no  real  union  could  be,  there  one  must  bow  to  the 
'other.  For  that  one  the  relation  must  become  bond- 
age, chafing,  stultifying,  still  further  hardening. 

But  it  had,  too,  its  other  side  of  the  ledger,  for  it 
poisoned  the  whole  draft  of  the  life  he  had  chosen, 
kept  alive  the  discontent  that  dreamed  always  of 
something  better  beyond. 


CHAPTER  XII 

'A  MAN  AND  HIS  WIFE 

IN  THE  down-town  offices  of  the  Quinby  com- 
pany and  in  the  particular  room  which  may  be 
called  the  headquarters  of  the  Quinby  army,  two 
men  were  sitting  late  one  winter  afternoon.  The 
one  was  Henley  himself,  now  chairman  of  the  com- 
pany, a  bit  stouter  than  when  we  first  met  him 
twelve  years  ago,  his  arrogance  a  little  less  evident 
in  manner  albeit  time  had  not  altered  the  fact.  The 
other  was  a  youngish  man  whose  thin  bony  face 
and  hands  and  streaks  of  premature  gray  hair 
spoke  of  physical  frailty.  No  one,  however,  having 
noticed  the  dark  eyes,  by  contrast  with  his  un- 
healthy pallor  almost  feverishly  bright  and  active, 
and  the  thin  line  of  the  mouth,  would  have  dis- 
missed him  as  one  of  life's  negligibles. 

It  was  common  knowledge  in  the  Quinby  com- 
pany that  no  one  was  more  welcome  in  Henley's 
office  than  the  young  superintendent  whom  the  mas- 
ter's influence  had  put  in  command  of  the  big  new 
open-hearth  plant.  It  was  even  suspected  that  Hen- 
ley had  taken  Truitt  in  with  him  in  his  speculations. 
(The  name  is  a  misnomer.  Henley's  speculations 
partook  of  the  certainty  of  investments.)  This  was 
matter  for  jealousy  among  the  other  superintend- 

172 


173 

ents,  although  Truitt's  fitness  for  his  new  position 
was  grudgingly  admitted  by  all. 

At  the  end  of  a  long  discussion  of  company  af- 
fairs Henley  pressed  a  button.  His  secretary  ap- 
peared from  the  adjoining  office. 

"Bring  in  the  Light  and  Heat  account." 

The  secretary  went  out.  Henley  produced  a  box 
of  cigars,  chose  one  and  lighted  it.  As  an  after- 
thought, he  held  out  the  box  to  Mark. 

Mark  sniffed  the  fragrant  smoke  hungrily.  "No, 
thanks." 

"Don't  smoke,  eh?" 

"Yes.    Just  one,  after  dinner." 

"Why  the  one?" 

"To  console  appetite,  I  guess." 

"You  have  appetites,  then?" 

Mark  grinned  wryly.    "All  of  'em." 

Henley  smiled  slightly.  His  superintendent's 
rigid  abstemiousness  was  well  known  to  him,  but  it 
was  his  pleasure  to  play  the  role  of  tempter.  It  was 
equally  his  pleasure  to  play  it  in  vain. 

The  secretary  returned  with  the  account  of  the 
latest  successful  speculation.  Henley  gave  it  a 
rapid  glance  and  handed  it  to  Mark.  The  latter 
studied  it  carefully,  questioned  certain  items,  ques- 
tioned the  explanation  and  finally  accepted  them. 
Henley  smiled  again.  He  knew  men  who  would 
have  hesitated  to  question  his  accounts.  Everything 
he  knew  of  Truitt  he  liked. 

"Make  out  Mr.  Truitt's  check,"  he  directed  the 
secretary,  who  withdrew  and  promptly  returned. 


174    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

Henley  signed  the  check  and  delivered  it  to  Mark. 
The  latter  receipted  the  accompanying  voucher. 

"I've  another  thing  in  mind,"  Henley  suggested. 
"Care  to  go  in?" 

Mark  hesitated,  his  brow  suddenly  wrinkling.  "I 
think  not,"  he  said  at  last.  The  note  of  irritation 
did  not  escape  Henley.  "I've  my  eye  on  a  new 
house." 

"I  thought  you  were  pretty  comfortably  fixed." 

Mark  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "It  seems  the 
neighborhood  leaves  something  to  be  desired." 

"Yes?  I  see,"  Henley  indicated  Mark's  heavy 
furred  overcoat,  "you're  driving  out.  You  can  take 
me  home — unless  you're  in  a  hurry  to  reach  that  de- 
linquent neighborhood  ?" 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  later  the  two  men  emerged 
from  the  corridor  of  the  Quinby  building.  At  the 
door  a  crippled  beggar  accosted  them.  Henley 
ignored  him.  Mark  slyly  gave  him  a  coin. 

A  beautifully  matched  team  of  blacks  harnessed 
to  a  light  sleigh  awaited  him.  Evidently  Mark  had 
not  forgotten  his  early  knowledge  of  horse-flesh. 
Only  a  man  whom  fortune  had  kissed  could  have 
afforded  such  horses.  For  Mark — with  his  "leg  and 
a  half" — they  were  hardly  an  extravagance,  almost 
a  necessity. 

There  had  been  a  snow,  hard-packed  by  traffic, 
and  the  blacks  caught  the  sleigh  swiftly  along 
through  the  dusk.  When  the  crowded  business  sec- 
tion lay  behind  them,  Henley  remarked  casually: 

"I  saw  your  little  charity  back  there." 


A   MAN    AND    HIS    WIFE  175 

"He  was  a  cripple." 

"I  see,"  Henley  nodded.  "That's  your  greatest 
asset." 

"What  is?" 

"Your  health." 

"My  lack  of  it,  you  mean,"  Marie  answered  grim- 
ly. "But  I  don't  quite  get  your  point  of  view." 

"It  keeps  you  from  making  a  fool  of  yourself. 
There's  Hare,  for  instance,  a  capable  man,  drinking 
himself  into  incompetency.  And  Harmon,  with  his 
women.  For  them  prosperity  means  indulgence. 
You  keep  your  appetites  under  control." 

"I  have  to." 

"Exactly  my  point."  For  a  few  blocks  Henley 
apparently  gave  himself  over  wholly  to  the  agree- 
able exercise  of  breathing  in  the  keen  frosty  air. 
When  he  resumed,  no  one  could  have  guessed  from 
his  tone  that  he  was  working  toward  a  given  point. 
"Higsbee's  case  is  worse.  One  woman." 

"Has  he—" 

"His  wife.  A  smooth  catty  creature,  with  a 
craze  for  display.  Married  him  after  he  made  his 
stake,  of  course.  Always  nagging  him  for  new 
jewels,  new  carriages,  a  new — house.  Makes  him 
dress  for  dinner.  Drags  him  around  to  dances  and 
receptions  and  box  parties — when  thirty  minutes  of 
that  takes  it  out  of  him  more  than  twelve  hours  at 
the  rolls  used  to."  Mark  might  have  been  sitting 
for  his  portrait.  "Egging  him  on  until  he's  schem- 
ing as  unscrupulously  as  a  toothless  old  dowager  to 
get  into  society — or  what  with  her  passes  for  so- 


i  ;6    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

ciety.  He  spent  six  months  beating  about  the  bush 
to  get  me  to  send  my  wife  around  to  call  on  her. 
Queer,  how  a  big  talented  man  will  let  a  pretty  use- 
less woman  pull  him  around  by  the  ears!" 

"Damned  queer!"  said  Mark. 

"I  suppose  we,  who  aren't  in  the  same  case,  can't 
understand  it." 

Henley,  Mark  thought,  seemed  to  understand  it 
very  well. 

A  few  minutes  more  brought  them  dashing  up  to 
a  stop  under  the  porte-cochere  of  Henley's  big 
house. 

"Much  obliged  for  the  lift,"  said  Henley  as  he 
sprang  out  of  the  sleigh.  He  added  casually,  "Er — 
by  the  way,  I  think  I  heard  my  wife  say  she  was 
planning  to  call  on  Mrs.  Truitt  in  the  near  future." 

Despite  a  quick  flush,  Mark  looked  at  him  stead- 
ily. "Higsbee,  then,  was  a  parable?" 

"By  no  means,"  Henley  returned  blandly.  "It 
seems  they  have  met  at  St.  Swithin's  and  were — 
mutually  interested."  He  paused,  but  as  no  reply 
came  from  Mark,  continued  in  the  impersonal  tone 
of  one  who  philosophizes  generally.  "After  all, 
there's  a  Higsbee  in  all  of  us.  We  affect  to  jeer  at 
this  society  thing.  But  we  want  our  wives  to  have 
the  best.  It's  more  comfortable,  too.  And  besides, 
when  a  man  has  a  iharming  wife,  he  can't  hide  her 
light  under  a  bushel.  Good  night." 

"Good  night.  Especially,"  Mark  muttered  to  him- 
self, "when  she  proposes  to  let  it  shine."  He  gave 
the  reins  an  angry  jerk.  The  horses  leaped  and 


A   MAN    AND    HIS    WIFE  177 

raced  down  the  driveway  and  into  the  street.  The 
music  of  the  sleigh-bells  rang  merrily  on  the  keen 
air.  The  pace  was  one  to  exhilarate,  to  clear  the 
mind,  to  fill  the  heart  with  the  sheer  joy  of  living. 
Passing  pedestrians  looked  enviously  after  him. 
•  Once  he  laughed  aloud,  sneeringly.  "Complaisant 
toady!"  He  did  not  refer  to  Henley.  He  had,  in 
fact,  himself  in  mind.  One  can  not  well  openly  re- 
sent the  insolent  if  friendly  interest — even  in  one's 
domestic  affairs — of  the  man  whose  eccentric  favor 
spells  prosperity.  Still  it  stings,  especially  when  it 
argues  a  shrewd  guess  as  to  the  fact.  And  the  fact 
was,  Superintendent  Truitt's  domestic  estate,  like 
the  neighborhood  in  which  he  lived,  left  something 
to  be  desired. 

He  had  reached  that  neighborhood,  a  pleasant 
substantial  community,  within  easy  envying  dis- 
tance of  the  gilded  colony  of  which  Henley's  big 
house  was  the  geographical  and  social  center.  The 
streets  were  comfortably  wide  and  lined  with  sap- 
ling maples,  their  meagerness  just  then  unrelieved 
in  the  winter  nakedness.  It  is  true  the  houses — of 
that  distinct  class  known  as  "contractor's  houses" — 
were  not  small,  unless  one  drew  a  comparison,  but 
they  were  of  an  uninspired  plainness  and  as  like  as 
so  many  peas.  Yet,  when  they  moved  into  this 
neighborhood,  the  Truitts  h^d  been  somewhat  in 
awe  of  it.  "What,"  out  of  their  slender  sophistica- 
tion they  had  asked,  "could  one  desire  more?"  And 
even  on  that  winter  evening,  after  two  years,  Mark 
desired  nothing  better.  But  then,  as  his  wife  some- 


178    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

times  remarked  to  him,  Truitt  had  many  plebeian 

tastes. 

:.     He  stopped  at  a  brick  house  that  differed  from  its 

neighbors  only  in  that  the  lot  was  wide  enough  to 

allow  for  a  driveway  to  the  little  stable  in  the  rear. 

A  groom,  who  had  come  to  the  front  in  answer  to 

the  summons  of  the  bells,  took  the  team. 

Mark,  leaning  hard  on  his  cane,  limped  stiffly  up 
the  terrace  steps  to  the  porch.  The  parlor — Unity 
was  beginning  to  refer  to  it,  not  easily,  as  the  draw- 
ing-room— was  lighted,  the  shades  were  not  drawn. 
He  peered  in. 

He  saw  a  room  in  nowise  distinctive.  Glistening 
mahogany  furniture,  which  time  had  had  no  chance 
to  mellow,  filled  it  to  overflowing.  A  grand  piano, 
never  played  but  open  and  with  a  sheet  of  music  on 
the  rack,  imposingly  occupied  one  corner.  In  an- 
other corner  stood  a  small  bookcase,  its  books  in 
sets,  as  brightly  red  as  when  they  came  from  the 
bookseller.  No  man  would  have  been  so  foolhardy 
as  to  rest  an  elbow  on  the  crowded  mantle.  Upon 
the  walls  hung  a  strange  medley  of  pictures,  prints 
and  photographs,  oils  and  water  sketches — of  no 
virtue  whatsoever — grouped  haphazard.  With 
Unity  a  new  purchase  was  an  addition,  not  a  sub- 
stitution. 

The  critic,  however,  would  have  resigned  his 
function  when  he  beheld  the  woman  upon  whom 
Mark  gazed  through  the  window.  She  was  reclin- 
ing in  graceful  attitude — Unity  could  be  relied 
upon  to  present  graceful  poses  at  all  times — in  a  big 


A   MAN   AND   HIS    WIFE  179 

easy  chair.  Her  gown,  of  some  soft,  pale  green 
stuff,  vastly  became  her  and,  as  did  every  detail  of 
her  from  the  carefully  achieved  coiffure  to  the  black 
velvet  slippers  that  peeped  out  from  beneath  her 
skirt,  avouched  the  fact  that  Unity  had  mastered 
more  than  the  rudiments  of  the  art  of  personal 
decoration.  She  made  an  almost  flawless  lovely 
picture,  you  would  have  said;  since  she  was  more 
than  merely  pretty  and  a  trifle  less  than  beautiful 
people  were  apt  to  compromise  on  "lovely"  when 
speaking  of  Unity  Truitt.  But  Mark,  who  had 
collaborated  in  an  essential  capacity  to  produce  this 
charming  picture,  smiled  satirically.  The  smile  was 
at  himself  and  because  upon  seeing  her  he  had 
known  an  impulse  of  admiration  and  tenderness: 
an  absurd  impulse  in  a  man  who  by  reason  of  her 
had  just  heard  a  parable  and  swallowed  his  pride. 

He  went  into  the  house,  doffed  his  heavy  overcoat 
and  limped  into  the  drawing-room.  Unity  did  not 
by  so  much  as  a  glance  around  disturb  her  graceful 
pose  until  he  was  at  her  side.  Then  she  languidly 
held  up  a  hand  to  him. 

He  brushed  it  with  his  lips.  "You're  looking 
scrumptious,  Unity."  He  went  so  far  as  to  give  a 
brief  admiring  pat  to  her  hair. 

She  moved  petulantly.  "Don't !  You'll  muss  my 
hair." 

He  dropped  her  hand.  "That  would  be  a  shame, 
wouldn't  it?" 

He  sat  down  near  her.  She  sighed.  The  sigh, 
one  might  have  thought,  was  one  of  alarm  and  was 


i8o    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

because  she  had  noted  his  pallor,  which  even  after 
the  spirited  drive  was  so  pronounced. 

"Been  a  hard  day?"  But  the  question  was  not 
Unity's.  She  had  not  marked  his  air  of  exhaustion 
or,  if  she  had,  was  so  used  to  it  that  she  was  not  con- 
cerned. 

"So  hard!"  She  sighed  again  very  plaintively. 
"So  very  exciting !  And  you  know  how  excitement 
always  affects  me." 

"Yes,  I  know."  Just  the  edges  of  his  satirical 
smile  showed  again.  "What  has  been  the  particular 
excitement  to-day?" 

"Mrs.  Henley  called !" 

"Yes?"  Mark's  voice  did  not  reveal  the  interest 
so  epochal  an  event  demanded. 

"Yes?"  mimicked  Unity.  "Is  that  all  you  can 
say?  But  I  suppose,  of  course,  you  don't  care, 
though  you  know  what  it  means  to  me." 

"Just  what  does  it  mean  to  you,  Unity  ?" 

"It  means,"  somewhat  dithyrambically,  "that  I 
have  won  the  friendship  I  have  tried  so  hard  for 
three  years  to  win." 

"Then  she  came  up  to  the  plans  and  specifica- 
tions?" 

"She's  a  dear.  So  sweet  and  refined !  So  intelli- 
gent and  ambitious!  It's  no  wonder  a  man  with 
such  a  wife  has  got  as  far  as  Mr.  Henley  has. 
Though  I  suppose  he  would  never  give  her  credit." 

"I  fancy  Henley  does  her  justice,"  Mark  ven- 
tured. 

"That  is  more,"  Unity's  tone  was  one  of  patient 


A   MAN    AND    HIS    WIFE  181 

dignified  reproach,  "than  some  people  I  know  do  for 
their  wives." 

Habit  put  a  seal  on  his  lips. 

From  lesser  beginnings  the  Truitts  had  found,  in 
the  earlier  years  of  their  marriage,  steel  and  tinder 
for  quarrels :  nasty  quarrels  in  which  tempers  were 
lost  and  cutting  words  spoken  and  that  invariably 
had  the  same  issue — the  husband,  humiliated  by  the 
sordidness  of  it,  suing  for  peace.  But  that  stage 
had  passed.  Now,  at  the  first  sign  of  hostilities,  he 
promptly  hung  out  a  white  flag.  He  was  willing, 
with  the  never  worded  thought  that  when  a  man  has 
made  a  bad  bargain  the  least  he  can  do  is  to  stand  by 
it,  to  buy  peace  at  whatever  price  her  desire  or  whim 
demanded.  A  fact  of  which  even  an  unintelligent 
woman  could  not  remain  in  ignorance. 

He  was,  that  evening,  at  a  low  ebb  physically,  his 
hip  ached  severely,  and  despite  Henley's  insolent 
parable  he  had  less  inclination  than  usual  for  do- 
mestic bickering.  He  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  clos- 
ing his  eyes,  and  relaxed  his  tired  body.  She  inter- 
preted this  listless  attitude  as  evidence  that  he  was  in 
a  docile  frame  of  mind. 

She  eyed  him  covertly  for  a  little.  "I  was  so 
ashamed  this  afternoon,"  she  murmured  at  last 
pathetically. 

He  opened  his  eyes  with  a  start;  he  had  almost 
slept.  "Ashamed — ?  Oh,  yes — Mrs.  Henley. 
What  did  you  do?" 

"/  did  nothing.  It  was  this  house.  I  could  see 
her  looking  around  at  all  this  and  trying  to  hide  her 


1 82    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

amusement  over  it.  Though  she  was  careful  not  to 
take  too  much  pains  to  hide  it." 

"But,  for  a  friend,  isn't  that—" 

"Oh,  you  can't  understand.  Or  won't,"  she 
amended  bitterly.  "You've  no  conception  of  the 
pride  a  woman  likes  to  have  in  her  home.  Of 
course,  she  looked  down  on  this.  Anybody  would." 

"We  used  to  think  it  mighty  fine.  In  Bethel  we 
never  dreamed  of  anything  so  good." 

"You  didn't.  But  I  did,"  she  retorted.  "Besides, 
we  aren't  in  Bethel  now.  We're  here  and  growing 
rich.  And  we  ought  to  live  like  the  rest  of  our 
kind." 

"Just  what  is  our  kind,  Unity?" 

"If  you  didn't  have  me  to  give  you  ambition,  we'd 
still  be  homely  dowdy  nobodies." 

"Then  we  are  somebodies  ?" 

"We  can  be.  We're  going  to  be."  She  sat  up 
suddenly,  her  thin  lips  tightening.  "Mark,  we  must 
— we  simply  must — move.  We  can  afford  it,  I 
know." 

"Yes,  we  can  do  it."  He  made  a  gesture  of  resig- 
nation. "But  it  will  clean  me  out  of  ready  cash." 

"You  can  make  more,"  said  Unity  negligently. 
"You're  so  clever  at  that.  And  besides,  what's  the 
use  of  having  money  if  it  doesn't  buy  the  things 
we  want?" 

"For  one  thing,"  he  smiled  grimly,  "I  can't  get 
insurance,  and  men  have  been  known  to  die  and 
leave  their  widows  penniless.  However,"  he  rose 


A   MAN    AND    HIS    WIFE  183 

with  an  evident  effort,  "we've  gone  over  all  this  a 
hundred  times.  I'll  see." 

Yielding  was  in  his  voice. 

She  fell  back  into  her  languid  graceful  pose.  She 
gave  him  her  very  sweetest  smile,  which  she  meant 
to  seem  lovingly  grateful.  He  saw  in  it  only  tri- 
umph. 

"You  can  be  such  a  dear!"  she  purred.  "I'm  so 
proud  of  you!  And  now  you'd  better  hurry  and 
dress.  You  know  the  Higsbees  are  coming  for  din- 
ner." 

He  repressed  an  oath.  "I'd  forgotten."  And  he 
limped  heavily  from  the  room. 

In  his  own  room  he  dropped  on  the  bed,  yielding 
for  a  brief  interval  to  the  pain  and  weakness  of 
which  it  was  his  pride  never  to  give  a  sign  before 
others.  He  had  learned  that  a  doctor's  prohibition 
is  not  always  to  be  defied  with  impunity.  Pain  and 
weakness,  if  not  always  with  him  as  on  that  evening, 
yet  were  his  daily  portion.  .  .  .  Under  this  handi- 
cap he  had  driven  himself  to  the  outer  edge  of  the 
circle  of  light  cast  by  such  luminaries  as  the  Hen-' 
leys. 

He  allowed  himself  but  a  few  minutes'  respite. 
Then  he  rose  and  began  the  toilet  upon  which  his 
wife  laid  so  much  stress;  to  Unity  "dressing  for 
dinner"  symbolized  both  their  advance  toward,  and 
fitness  for,  membership  in  the  flamboyant — it  is  not 
the  word  she  used — circle.  This  task  complete,  the 
slight  satirical  smile  that  was  becoming  habit  with 


1 84    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

him  appeared  again.  And  again  it  was  at  himself, 
because  he  rather  fancied  the  striking  image  in  the 
glass — the  slender  figure  in  black  and  white,  sur- 
mounted by  the  pale  angular  face  with  the  stern 
mouth  and  brilliant  eyes.  He  even  thought  that, 
when  it  wore  that  smile,  it  bore  a  faint  likeness  to 
Henley  himself. 

The  smile  deepened.  "This  is  sheer  vanity."  The 
thought  pleased  nevertheless. 

He  descended  barely  in  time  to  join  Unity  in 
greeting  their  guests. 

He  did  not  see  a  deeper  vanity  in  his  feeling  of 
superiority  over  his  guests.  Higsbee  was  a  big 
beefy  man,  red  of  countenance  and  with  a  raucous 
voice  that  grated  on  Mark's  nerves.  He  was  rough, 
not  to  say  boisterous,  in  manner,  and  his  notion  of 
wit  was  veiled  smuttiness:  essays  to  which  Unity, 
incomparable  hostess!  paid  the  perfect  compliment 
of  a  shocked  laugh  and  a  blush.  Beneath  his  surface 
boldness  ran  an  undercurrent  of  timidity  that  be- 
came ludicrous  confusion  on  an  occasion  when  a 
sharp  glance  from  his  lady  called  his  attention  to  an 
error  in  the  matter  of  forks. 

Mark,  with  Henley's  comment  fresh  in  mind,  was 
disposed  to  be  critical  of  Mrs.  Higsbee.  She  was 
small,  a  little  too  elaborately  dressed  and  bejeweled, 
and  assertive.  Her  admitted  prettiness  did  not  blind 
to  something  hard  and  metallic  about  her.  "If  I 
tapped  her,"  Mark  said  to  himself,  "she  would  ring 
like  a  piece  of  brass."  His  choice  of  metal  was 
happy. 


A    MAN    AND    HIS    WIFE  185 

How  Unity,  in  her  simple  gown  and  delicate  love- 
liness, shone  by  the  contrast !  She  was  gracious,  re- 
strained, and  presided  at  the  table  with  an  easy  grace 
that  was  altogether  charming.  This  manner  was 
not  an  inheritance  from  Bethel  days,  nor  yet  a 
studied  acquisition  from  the  city.  It  was  a  gift  and 
proved  beyond  question  that  Unity,  when  she 
aspired  to  loftier  planes,  had  the  true  vision.  It  is 
possible  her  sweetness,  to  those  who  did  not  care  for 
honey  in  large  quantities,  might  have  been  a  bit 
cloying  and  cavilers  would  have  said  that  she  led 
the  conversation  too  exclusively.  But  these  were 
minor  flaws  to  be  forgiven  in  one  so  pleasing  to  the 
eye. 

The  dinner  was  well  cooked  and  served,  which 
was  not  always  true  when  the  Truitts  dined  alone. 
Mark  ate  sparingly,  the  while  eying  covetously  the 
viands  with  which  he  dared  not  indulge  himself. 
He  barely  tasted  the  wines,  served  as  commanded  in 
Unity's  book  on  Dinner  Etiquette.  (Alas  for  the 
white-ribbon  morality  of  Unity's  upbringing!) 
He  talked  little,  neither  Higsbee's  coarse  daring  nor 
the  ladies'  light  gossip  of  plays,  latest  books  and  mu- 
tual acquaintances — especially  of  mutual  acquaint- 
ances— being  fields  in  which  he  felt  at  home.  But  he 
was  secretly  much  amused  when  to  Unity's  casual 
mention  of  Mrs.  Henley's  call,  Mrs.  Higsbee  re- 
plied with  the  invidious  suggestion  that  Mrs.  Henley 
was  a  good  deal  of  a  snob.  And  when  Unity  coun- 
tered sweetly,  "Do  you  think  so  ?  7  haven't  found 
her  so,"  he  chuckled  aloud. 


1 86     THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK   TRUITT 

He  explained  the  chuckle.  "One  mustn't  look  a 
gift  horse  in  the  mouth."  At  which  crude  remark 
Higsbee  guffawed,  Mrs.  Higsbee  tittered  mali- 
ciously and  Unity  looked  pained.  All  three  had  a 
suspicion  of  what  he  knew :  that  Mrs.  Henley's 
call  had  been  under  orders,  a  gift  from  Henley. 

Later  he  smoked,  slowly  and  very  appreciatively, 
a  mild  cigar,  which  lasted  until  Higsbee  had  con- 
sumed the  second. 

"How,"  Higsbee  asked  once,  untactfully,  "did 
you  get  Henley  to  send  his  wife  around?" 

Mark  resented  the  question.  "I  didn't  get  him  to." 

"No  ?"  Higsbee  looked  a  bit  incredulous.  "Well, 
you  certainly  do  stand  well  with  him.  Say,  if  you 
get  a  chance,  I  wish  you'd  drop  him  a  hint  that  we'd 
be  glad  to  have  her  call." 

"I'm  afraid,"  Mark  said  coldly,  "Henley  isn't  a 
man  to  take  that  sort  of  a  hint  kindly." 

"I  wish  you  would,"  Higsbee  urged.  "Mrs.  H. 
is  crazy  for  it.  And  I  reckon,"  he  laughed  lumber- 
ingly,  "the  best  way  is  to  get  a  woman  what  she 
wants.  It's  comfortablest,  anyhow." 

"I  haven't  found  it  so,"  Mark  lied,  adopting 
Unity's  tactics,  and  promptly  changed  the  subject. 

Still  later  they  played — yes,  euchre.  Higsbee 
railed  at  his  hands.  Mrs.  Higsbee  hovered  always 
close  to  that  tormenting  topic,  Mrs.  Henley.  Unity 
made  as  many  blunders  as  the  game  permitted  and 
charmingly  confessed  her  stupidity.  Mark,  with 
nothing  but  this  pastime  to  distract  his  mind,  was 
acutely  sensible  of  his  aching  hip. 


A  MAN   AND   HIS   WIFE  187 

This  did  not  allay  the  irritation  that  had  been 
rankling  since  his  talk  with  Henley.  It  made  him 
savage  in  his  mental  criticisms  of  the  guests.  He 
even  joined  with  the  cavilers  and  found  fault  with 
Unity  and  her  manner.  .  .  .  Mark  was  one  of 
those  who  had  no  taste  for  honey.  This  may  have 
been  a  variation  of  the  case  of  the  philosophic  fox, 
since  that  condiment  was  served  to  him  but  seldom 
and  then  only  as  reward  for  some  unusual  conces- 
sion. It  was  his  portion  to  listen  to  Unity's  com- 
plaints. Unity — at  home — had  a  talent  for  com- 
plaint and  a  pertinacity  of  utterance  that  were 
nothing  short  of  remarkable.  This  had  the  virtue 
of  exercising  his  patience,  but  there  were  moments, 
especially  during  exhibitions  of  Unity's  company 
manner,  when  he  wondered  how  long  he  could  put 
off  his  inevitable  rebellion. 

But  at  last  the  Higsbees  left. 

"Thank  heaven!"  exclaimed  Mark.  "And  to 
think  that  that  man  is  one  of  the  best  labor  handlers 
in  the  country!" 

"Bourgeois!"  Unity  gave  a  shrug  and  a  nod  to 
include  the  departed  guests. 

"Spell  it." 

Unity  complied. 

"Hmm!  I  happen  to  know  what  it  means."  He 
gave  her  a  look  of  mock  admiration.  "Unity,  you're 
a  wonder.  You've  got  the  nerve  of  a  winner.  You 
travel  too  fast  a  gait  for  me.  Who  could  believe 
that  less  than  six  years  ago  you  were  back  in  Bethel, 
keeping  company  with  tight-fisted  Bill  Slocum!" 


1 88    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

But  Unity  was  too  well  pleased  with  herself  just 
then  to  resent  this  cruel  reminder.  "Don't  you  see 
why  I  am  so  anxious  to  get  up  above  such  people?" 

"I  can  see,"  he  said,  "I  shall  have  to  give  in." 

She  went  to  him  with  a  little  cuddling  movement, 
locking  both  hands  over  one  of  his  shoulders  and 
looking  up  at  him.  She  made  a  pretty  picture.  A 
mirror  over  the  mantle  reflected  it  for  him. 

"Oh,  Mark,  you  make  me  so  happy !  Tell  me  the 
truth.  Aren't  you  glad  I  made  you  come  back  to 
the  city,  and  that  we've  got  so  far — and  that  we're 
going  so  much  farther?" 

"You  insist  upon  the  truth  ?"  He  looked  thought- 
fully at  the  reflection.  "Well,  I  suppose  I  must  be. 
Otherwise  you  couldn't  force  me  to  buy  the  new 
house,  even  though  you  are  a  very  capable  bully — " 

"Bully!" 

"Exactly.  Only,"  he  continued,  "I  still  have  a 
sense  of  proportion.  We  are  rather  absurd,  you  and 
I,  Unity." 

She  laughed  contentedly.  "I  know  you.  It's  like 
you  to  growl  when  you're  doing  a  specially  nice 
thing."  She  held  up  her  lips  to  him. 

"And  is  this  my  reward  ?  Magnificent !"  But  he 
did  not  kiss  her.  He  looked  curiously  at  her.  Long 
ago  he  had  been  undeceived.  He  knew  that  the 
shallow  tenderness  and  admiration  summoned  by 
her  sweetness  of  flesh  and  perfect  grooming  were 
not  love.  He  gently  disengaged  himself. 

"No,  thanks !    I  might  acquire  the  taste.    And  it's 


A    MAN    AND    HIS    WIFE  189 

too  expensive."  He  limped  away  from  her  and  pre- 
tended to  examine  a  book  that  lay  on  the  piano. 

She  assumed  an  air  of  gentle  reproach.  "Oh, 
Mark,  you  don't  mean  that?" 

She  did  not  detect  the  warning  note  in  his  laugh. 

"Oh,  no!    Of  course  not !" 

He  returned  to  her.    They  kissed. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

TROPHIES 

"IV/fETEORIC"  was  the  word  most  often  used 
1 T  J.  to  describe  Truitt's  rise.  It  was  a  career 
possible  only  in  his  chosen  industry  and  at  that  time 
when,  no  matter  how  fast  plants  were  multiplied 
and  new  devices  adopted,  the  output  could  not  keep 
pace  with  the  world's  insistent  demand  for  steel.  It 
did  not  differ  notably  from  the  careers  of  several 
other  young  superintendents  of  the  Quinby  company, 
save  in  the  one  particular,  that  Henley's  preference 
had  deepened  into  something  approximating  friend- 
ship. On  Mark's  side  the  friendship  was  not  open  to 
question ;  his  admiration  and  liking  for  Henley  were 
unbounded  and  not  dependent  on  favors  received. 
No  doubt  this  genuineness,  which  Henley  was  keen 
enough  to  perceive  and  human  enough  to  value  if 
only  for  its  rarity,  had  much  to  do  with  the  older 
man's  attitude.  It  is  certain  that  during  this  period 
of  Mark's  life,  Henley  and  Henley's  ideals  were 
the  controlling  influence. 

Henley,  however,  put  Mark's  sincerity  to  no  test. 
Mark's  genius  was  productive,  not  acquisitive.  Prob- 
lems in  mechanics,  in  organization  and  in  the  control 
of  men  he  could  solve  brilliantly;  in  matters  of 
finance  he  was  merely  shrewd.  But  the  man  who 

190 


TROPHIES  191 

had  Henley  as  a  friend  and  counselor  had  no  great 
need  of  financial  genius.  The  time  soon  came  when 
Mark's  growing  fortune  was  more  than  able  to  meet 
the  demands  of  the  campaign  of  Unity  and  her  sister 
matrons  around  the  walls  of  Jericho. 

Jericho  ?  That  narrowly  limited  circle,  of  course, 
which  by  virtue  of  sundry  possessions  and  constant 
reiteration  claimed  the  rank  and  privileges  of  that 
ubiquitous  order,  aristocracy.  A  rather  flimsy  title 
theirs,  perhaps,  but  a  scant  three  generations  having 
died  since  their  ancestors — very  respectable,  it  is 
now  believed — tavern-keepers  and  farmers,  black- 
smiths and  boat-builders,  had  patented  the  lands  the 
city's  growth  afterward  made  so  valuable.  And  a 
very  pleasant  folk  they  were,  these  descendants  of 
pioneers,  harmless,  at  least  to  all  but  themselves, 
albeit  a  bit  mad  on  the  subject  of  their  own  import- 
ance and  overzealous  to  keep  their  portals  clean 
from  the  stains  of  unsanctified  feet. 

At  least  they  had  been — until  the  advent  of  steel. 
The  Jerichoans,  secure  within  their  buttressed  walls 
and  highly  amused,  had  seen  a  troop  without  aping 
the  importance  of  those  born  important,  building  big 
houses,  taking  costly  pews,  bedecking  their  women 
with  silks  and  laces  and  jewels,  even  blowing  an 
occasional  blast  on  their  horns.  Jericho  could  well 
laugh  at  that  feeble  trumpeting.  And  then,  over- 
night, as  it  seemed,  the  besiegers  increased  both  in 
numbers  and  in  importance;  Jericho  scoffed,  "New- 
rich!" 

But  they  scoffed  not  long.     For  when  the  out- 


192     THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

siders  began  to  build  other  houses,  bigger  and  finer 
than  any  within  the  walls,  to  count  their  dollars  in 
hundreds,  not  in  tens,  of  thousands  and  to  entertain 
with  a  lavish  splendor  that  seemed  to  the  dazzled 
Jerichoans  almost  metropolitan,  the  besieged  city, 
though  its  walls  had  not  fallen,  threw  wide  its  gates 
— and  rushed  ingloriously  out  to  greet  the  besiegers. 
Unhappy  Jericho,  its  only  value,  inhospitality,  gone, 
led  captive  and  frantically  glad  to  be  captive!  A 
new  city,  better  fortified,  had  been  raised,  and  Mrs. 
Thomas  Henley  was  its  governor. 

The  surrender  was  in  sight  when  the  Truitts 
moved  into  their  new  house.  It  was  a  rambling, 
red-brick,  ivy-grown  structure  containing  eighteen 
rooms  and  surrounded  by  wide  neglected  grounds, 
and  had  been  built  half  a  generation  before  as  a  wed- 
ding present  to  Timothy  Woodhouse  III.  Timothy 
was  a  first  citizen  of  Jericho — or  could  have  been, 
had  he  cared  for  that  preeminence.  But  in  him  the 
breed  had  cast  back  and  produced  an  enfeebled  copy 
of  the  first  Timothy  Woodhouse,  an  itinerant  tinker 
who  had  crossed  the  mountains  to  ply  his  trade  and 
establish  his  line.  Timothy  III.  was  a  dreamy- 
eyed  forceless  man  who  loved  above  all  things  to 
tinker  away  in  his  little  shop  at  fearful  and  wonder- 
ful devices  that  never  would  go.  An  expensive  avoca- 
tion for  Timothy,  since  the  cost  of  worthless  patents 
plus  a  childlike  trust  in  the  prophecies  of  promoters 
played  havoc  with  the  snug  fortune  gathered  by  his 
grandfather;  so  expensive  that,  when  the  time  came 
to  send  his  daughter  away  to  school,  he  felt  obliged 


TROPHIES  193 

to  sell  his  big  house  and  move  into  a  more  modest 
one. 

For  several  months  Mark  secretly  congratulated 
himself  on  the  purchase.  Unity  had  the  new  house 
to  wander  over  and  admire.  She  had  four  servants 
to  direct.  Within  the  allotted  time  she  had  returned 
Mrs.  Henley's  call,  and  after  an  anxious  period, 
Mrs.  Henley  called  again;  seeing  which,  certain 
other  ladies  of  St.  Swithin's  who  had  attained  the 
half-way  station  where  they  were  very  careful  upon 
whom  they  left  cards,  called  and  invited  her  to  share 
the  activities  of  the  guilds.  All  of  which  made  for 
happiness,  content.  Unity  found  little  to  criticize, 
she  was  engrossed  with  the  game  of  being  a  fine 
lady,  which  she  felt  sure  was  her  vocation. 

Thus  peace  abode  in  the  Truitt  household  and 
Mark,  freed  from  the  irritation  of  constant  bicker- 
ing, was  enabled  to  give  himself  wholly  to  work.  He 
did  not  realize  that  during  this  truce  he  grew  away 
from  his  wife  more  rapidly  than  when  domestic  in- 
harmony  kept  her  constantly  in  his  thoughts.  Dur- 
ing these  months  he  completed  his  improved  process 
for  rolling  steel  cold,  which  made  some  noise  in  the 
industrial  world. 

But  there  is  nothing  to  which  our  species  so  read- 
ily adapts  itself  as  to  luxury.  Content  dissolved. 
Unity  began  to  complain  of  the  heavy  labor  of  or- 
dering so  big  a  house.  She  resumed  her  criticisms 
of  Mark,  finding  fault  with  his  fashion  of  dress, 
his  manners,  his  habits  and  his  neglect  of  her. 
She  was  seized  with  a  devouring  mania  for  amuse- 


194    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

ment,  filling  the  house  almost  every  evening  with 
guests  and  demanding  that  Mark  perform  his  duties 
as  host.  Other  evenings  she  dragged  him  to  the 
theater,  which  he  detested.  When  he,  rendered 
peevish  by  late  hours  and  boredom,  suggested  that 
there  were  matinees,  she  put  on  an  injured  air 
that  was  more  irritating  to  him  than  outright  dis- 
temper. 

"Other  men  are  glad  to  go  out  with  their  wives." 

"Other  men  don't  have  to  work  so  hard  as  I  do." 

"You  think  of  nothing  but  money." 

"Devilish  lucky  for  you,"  he  was  indiscreet 
enough  to  retort ;  and  she  did  not  emerge  from  her 
sulks  for  several  days. 

But  at  last  the  gnawing  canker  was  disclosed. 
One  evening  so  stormy  that  no  guests  had  come, 
Unity  went  up  to  his  study  where  he  was  making 
the  most  of  this  respite.  She  talked  ramblingly  for 
a  while. 

"Well,  Unity,  out  with  it!"  he  exclaimed  impa- 
tiently, after  several  minutes.  "What  do  you  want  ? 
As  you  see,  I've  got  a  great  deal  to  do." 

"I  wonder  what  is  the  matter  with  Mrs.  Henley?" 

"You  ought  to  know.  You  see  her  often  enough, 
don't  you?" 

"Yes,  I  see  her — at  church!  And  we  call.  But 
she  never  invites  us  to  the  things  she  gives.  I  won- 
der why?" 

"Probably  because  she  doesn't  want  us." 

Unity  looked  her  protest  at  this  blunt  speech.  But 
she  did  not  abandon  her  project. 


TROPHIES  195 

"I  should  think,  if  you're  such  good  friends  with 
Mr.  Henley,  you  could  manage  it  easily  enough." 

"Now  you  can  stop  right  there,"  he  answered  em- 
phatically. "I'm  pretty  soft,  but  there's  one  thing 
I  draw  the  line  at.  And  that's  'managing'  to  get 
invited  to  other  people's  houses.  That's  flat!" 

And  on  that  he  was  firm,  though  he  was  made  to 
pay  in  many  ways  for  his  refusal. 

But  in  due  time  and  without  management  a  dinner 
invitation  came;  on  whose  initiative,  being  a  secret 
neither  Henley  nor  his  wife  has  ever  disclosed. 
Hence  we  may  not  speak  surely  as  to  the  accuracy 
of  certain  inferences  that  Unity  drew. 

"You  see !"  she  cried,  showing  the  note  to  Mark. 
Her  manner  said  plainly,  "I  alone  did  it,  in  spite  of 
the  indifference  of  my  husband." 

"I  see,"  he  responded  dryly.     "Are  you  going?" 

She  treated  this  question  to  the  contemptuous  si- 
lence it  deserved. 

Great  were  the  preparations  for  that  critical  occa- 
sion. And  as  Mark  stood  in  the  hall  and  watched 
her  descending  the  stairs  for  the  start,  he  was  bound 
to  confess  that  she  made  a  fair — oh,  a  very  fair — 
picture.  The  new  gown  was  of  creamy  satin  and 
lace  and  left  her  arms  and  throat  bare.  Her  thick 
dull  golden  braids  were  coiled  in  a  way  to  suggest 
a  crown  and  her  slightly  uptilted  chin  gave  her  the 
proud  patrician  air  supposed  to  be  the  badge  of 
those  born  to  satin  and  laces.  Her  eyes  shone  with 
excitement  and  a  heightened  color  compelled  atten- 
tion to  the  purity  of  her  complexion.  But  he  could 


196     THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK   TRUITT 

\ 

look  upon  her  now,  even  when  she  was  at  her  loveli- 
est, without  admiration  or  tenderness,  with  no  emo- 
tion at  all  but  impatience  for  her  prodigal  incom- 
pleteness. 

"Why,"  he  wondered,  "did  the  Almighty  make 
so  pretty  a  shell  and  put  nothing  in  it  ?"  This  seems 
to  prove  that  he  had  been  pretty  effectually  disillu- 
sioned. 

However  careless  he  might  affect  to  be,  he  was 
himself  keenly  elated  over  the  event.  Often  he  had 
asked  himself  why  Henley,  so  friendly  in  all  else, 
had  never  let  down  the  bars  before  his  home.  And  as 
he  mounted  the  steps  toward  the  opening  door,  he 
could  not  repress  the  thrill  of  exultation.  At  that 
very  window  he  had  stood,  a  raw  country  youth 
much  in  awe  of  the  Arabian  Nights'  wonders  he 
beheld,  and  Henley  had  caught  him  and  called  him 
"Peeping  Tom"  and  sneeringly  sent  him  off  to  find 
a  job  with  the  labor  gang.  Now  he  was  about  to  be 
received,  a  welcomed  equal,  by  Henley,  who,  too, 
had  grown  tremendously  since  that  night.  He 
laughed.  .  .  .  He  had  said,  prophetically,  "Unity 
will  like  that."  The  laugh  ceased. 

He  had  need  of  the  stimulus  of  his  exultation 
as  he  and  Unity  faced  that  roomful  of  people  who 
— well,  were  in  longer  practise  at  this  sort  of  thing 
than  was  he.  He  limped,  with  something  less  than 
Unity's  aplomb,  across  the  room  to  meet  his  hostess, 
who  murmured  graciously  something  quite  unin- 
telligible, and  Henley,  who  seemed  rather  bored. 
Then  he  was  introduced  to  his  dinner  partner,  Mrs. 


TROPHIES  197 

Belloc,  who  mistook  his  set  expression  for  sternness, 
and  was  in  the  end  led  by  her  without  mishap  to 
their  places  near  Henley's  end  of  the  table. 

He  had  no  small  talk  and  Mrs.  Belloc,  after  one 
or  two  barren  essays,  allowed  him  a  breathing  spell. 
So  for  a  while  he  sat  silent,  watching  Unity  who, 
almost  across  from  him,  was  gazing  soulfully  up  to, 
and  being  in  turn  ogled  by,  a  handsome  portly  gen- 
tleman, very  sure  of  himself,  no  less  a  personage 
than  the  rector  of  St.  Swithin's.  If  Unity  felt  any 
nervousness,  she  had  risen  nobly  above  it. 

Mrs.  Belloc  returned  firmly  to  her  duty. 

"You're  a  member  of  St.  Swithin's,  aren't  you  ?" 

"I'm — er — a  contributing  member." 

"Don't  you  love  it  ?    We  all  do." 

"Do  you?" 

"Yes.  And  Doctor  Palmer.  We  all  love  him, 
too." 

"Naturally.  Because  he  loves  you  all,  doesn't 
he?" 

"He's  my  ideal  of  a  rector.  I  think  he  has  such  a 
* — an  air — " 

"Undoubtedly,"  Mark  encouraged,  "an  air — " 

"Like  a — a  shepherd  ?" 

"Well— call  it  that." 

"And  when  he  reads  the  service,  his  voice — so  fine 
and  musical — like  a — "  The  simile  was  obscured 
in  a  burst  of  laughter  from  the  reverend  gentleman 
himself.  Mark  reached  convulsively  for  his  wine- 
glass. 

"Like 


198    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

"Like  violin." 

"Oh,  I  thought  you  said  violet." 

"Oh!  Hardly  that.  You  couldn't  call  him  like 
a  violet,  could  you?" 

"Frankly,  Mrs.  Belloc,  I  couldn't."  A  little  re- 
lieved, he  set  the  glass  down. 

"And  his  sermons,"  Mrs.  Belloc  sighed  raptur- 
ously. "So  helpful !  His  lecture  on  the  Sermon  on 
the  Mount — it  made  us  all  want  to  live  it." 

"Did  he  improve  on  the  text,  then  ?  Or,  at  least, 
he  must  have  amended  it?" 

"He  couldn't  do  that,  you  know." 

"But  I  should  think  he'd  have  to— in  St.  Swith- 
in's— " 

"Oh!"  she  exclaimed,  aghast,  and  fled  again,  as 
you  may  say,  for  refuge  to  her  other  neighbor.  Later 
Mark  heard  her  say  something  about  some  one's 
"irreverence".  He  inferred  that  it  was  his. 

Not  again  did  she  return  to  Mark  for  more  than 
a  perfunctory  remark.  Mrs.  Saunders,  his  other 
neighbor,  showed  no  wish  to  come  to  his  rescue.  He 
resigned  himself  to  a  lonely  evening. 

He  found  occupation  in  watching  Unity.  She 
was  making  no  such  heavy  weather  of  it.  The  talk- 
ative and  discreetly  flirtatious  rector  now  shared 
her  with  the  man  on  her  left ;  neither  man,  if  Mark 
might  judge  from  appearances,  found  the  situation 
a  cross. 

They  might  well  be  content  Unity  was  at  the 
very  apex  of  her  existence.  She  wa,s  the  prettiest 


TROPHIES  199 

woman  present,  with  the  loveliness  of  physical  full 
bloom  just  before  it  begins  to  fade.  Her  heart's 
desire  had  been  granted :  no  longer  must  she  be  con- 
tent with  carelessly  tossed  crumbs  and  crusts  of  pre- 
ferment; she  sat,  both  literally  and  figuratively,  at 
the  table  of  the  city's  elect.  For  her,  too,  a  straight 
way  lay  ahead  and  it  promised  to  be  a  superlatively 
pleasant  way.  Never  having  formed  the  habit  of 
analyzing  success,  she  perceived  no  luck  or  favor,  no 
recognition  of  the  growing  fortune  of  the  grim-vis- 
aged,  awkward,  ill-at-ease  husband  who  was  taking 
this  lesson  of  her  worth  and  importance.  She  be- 
lieved that  the  triumph  had  been  won  solely  through 
her  own  efforts  and  peculiar  fitness.  Therefore  she 
was  fabulously  happy.  Scraps  of  the  talk  across  the 
table  floated  to  Mark,  revealing  to  him  a  woman  he 
had  never  known,  gay  without  affecting  the  girlish- 
ness  that  was  no  longer  hers,  almost  witty,  with  the 
subtle  ineffable  charm  that  to  the  pretty  woman 
comes  as  an  inspiration  from  happiness. 

If  Unity  could  have  known  the  lesson  he  was  in 
fact  taking!  His  impatience  at  her  incompleteness 
yielded  to  a  yearning :  not  for  Unity  or  for  anything 
she  could  give,  but  for  that  which  her  outer  per- 
fection seemed  to  promise.  To  put  it  as  the  copy- 
book puts  it,  he  suddenly  wanted  companionship, 
sympathy,  love ;  for  sooner  or  later  even  the  success- 
ful man  knows  the  need  of  those  homely  elements. 
Of  them,  he  thought,  he  had  been  cheated.  He 
blamed  Unity.  Her  incompleteness  left  his  life  in- 


200    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK   TRUITT 

complete.  His  yearning  bred  bitterness.  He  under- 
stood then  something  into  which  he  had  never  yet 
been  tempted :  marital  infidelity. 

It  took  away  his  sense  of  triumph  in  his  presence 
at  Henley's  board ;  he  had  had  no  sense  of  belonging 
there.  He  was  led  into  criticism.  He  sneered  pri- 
vately at  the  great  garlanded  room,  the  flower- 
strewn  table  with  its  gleaming  silver  and  crystal 
and  monogramed  china  as  barbaric  display ;  at  him- 
self and  the  other  diners  as  a  crew  of  vulgarians 
aping  the  manners  and  revelries  of  the  purple  wear- 
ers. It  was  cheap  criticism  of  which  lesser  folk 
than  the  Truitts  have  been  guilty.  The  men,  at 
least,  at  that  table,  of  the  fine  creative  type,  Corsi- 
cans,  not  Bourbons,  wore  the  purple  under  the  title 
of  genius  and  achievement. 

The  salad  was  being  served  when  Mrs.  Saunders 
turned  to  him.  Mrs.  Saunders  was  one  of  the  inse- 
cure ladies  who,  following  Mrs.  Henley's  example, 
had  called  upon  Unity.  She  had  just  been  listening, 
too  long  for  patience,  to  her  partner's  praise  of 
Mrs.  Truitt 

"I  should  think  you'd  be  jealous.  Mr.  Hare  is 
more  than  enthusiastic  over  your  wife  to-night." 

"How  very  tactless!" 

"Oh,  no!"  said  Mrs.  Saunders  sweetly.  "I  quite 
agree  with  him.  I  think  she's  adorable.  She  re- 
minds me  so  much  of  that  portrait  by — you  know, 
the  one  that  hangs  in  the  Louvre." 

"But  I  don't  know.  I've  never  been  in  the 
Louvre." 


TROPHIES  201 

"Oh!    I  thought  everybody  had  been  there." 

"You  see,  Mrs.  Saunders,  I'm  not  anybody." 

"You  would  say  that,  of  course.     One  hears — " 

"But  it's  quite  true.  To  prove  it,  I've  never  been 
east  of  this  city.  In  fact,  the  first  time  I  came  to  this 
house — not  so  very  long  ago — I  peeked  through  the 
window  at  the  party.  Henley  caught  me."  He 
grinned  wryly.  "The  next  day  I  got  a  job  handling 
pick  and  shovel." 

"How  very  romantic !" 

"You  wouldn't  call  it  romantic,  if  you'd  been  in 
Houlahan's  gang." 

"And  then,  of  course,"  Mrs.  Saunders  beamed, 
"you  set  out  to  win  the  princess?" 

"The  princess?  Oh!  my  wife.  Yes,  I  suppose 
so." 

"She  has  always  lived  in  the  city,  hasn't  she?" 

"You'd  think  so,  wouldn't  you?"  Mark  glanced 
critically  at  Unity.  "But  she  hasn't.  Eight  years 
ago  she  was  living  in  Bethel.  And  Bethel,  Mrs. 
Saunders,  you'll  never  find  on  the  map." 

"Oh!"  Mrs.  Saunders  said  innocently.  "I  had 
inferred — but  that  perfect  manner!  She  must  have 
acquired  it  at  her  finishing  school?" 

Mark  chuckled.  "Finishing  school!  I  wish  you 
could  see  Miss  Smith's  Seminary  for  Young  Ladies. 
It  isn't  even  a  starter." 

Mrs.  Saunders  laughed  admiringly.  "How  very 
clever!  I  must  tell  your  wife." 

She  leaned  forward  a  little  toward  Unity.  "Oh, 
Mrs.  Truitt — " 


202     THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

Unity  gave  ear. 

"I  must  tell  you  the  clever  thing  your  husband 
just  said.  We  were  talking  about  your  school — 
Miss  Smith's  Seminary,  wasn't  it?  And  I  called  it 
a  finishing  school.  And  Mr.  Truitt  said" — Mrs. 
Saunders'  voice  carried  well —  "it  isn't  even  a 
starter.  Awf'ly  good,  I  think."  A  faint  titter  ran 
down  the  table.  "Ah — where  is  Miss  Smith's  Sem- 
inary, Mrs.  Truitt?" 

It  was  Henley  himself,  strange  to  relate,  who 
came  to  Unity's  rescue. 

"Never,  Mrs.  Saunders,"  he  remarked,  with  an 
edge  to  his  voice  that  the  men  recognized,  "never 
uncover  the  past — here,  at  least.  Only  the  other  day 
Saunders  was  telling  me  he  often  wakes  up  in  a  cold 
sweat,  because  he  has  heard  in  his  dreams,  'Dig  in, 
ye  tarrier !' ' 

The  men  all  laughed  reminiscently.  Unity  and 
Mrs.  Saunders  exchanged  sweetest  smiles.  The 
dinner  resumed  its  even  tenor. 

"Now,"  Mark  grimly  reminded  himself,  "I've  let 
myself  in  for  it." 

But  anger  was  surging.  He  deemed  that,  through 
Unity,  he  had  been  made  ridiculous. 

The  evening  passed.  Mark  handed  a  smiling 
Unity  into  their  carriage.  Not  a  word  passed  be- 
tween them  during  the  drive  homeward,  nor  until 
they  were  in  their  house.  Mark  led  the  way  to  the 
library.  The  gas-jets  were  not  lighted,  but  the  glow 
from  a  generous  log  fire  threw  their  angry  faces  into 
sharp  relief,  as  they  faced  each  other. 


TROPHIES  203 

"Well,  Unity,  I  suppose  we're  going  to  have  this 
thing  out." 

"How  could  you  ?"  she  began  stormily.  "And  on 
this  night  of  all  nights !  Didn't  you  know  she  was 
leading  you  on?" 

"Yes — when  it  was  too  late." 

"The  sugary  jealous  snob!  She  thinks  because 
she's  been  abroad  and  came  from  Philadelphia  she's 
so  aristocratic.  And  you — you — helped  her  to 
shame  me  before  them  all." 

"How  could  I  know  that  my  wife  had  been — - 
fibbing  about  her  antecedents  ?" 

"Would  you  have  me  admit  them  to  her  and  have 
her  patronizing  me  ?  Haven't  you  any  pride  ?" 

"Haven't  you  any  self-resp — " 

But  the  bitter  retort  was  halted,  bitten  off  by  the 
quick  tightening  of  his  jaws.  When  he  resumed,  he 
spoke  in  a  slow,  distinct,  quiet  voice  that  Unity  had 
never  heard. 

"On  second  thought,  we  will  not  have  this  out. 
We  couldn't  agree  as  to  where  the  offense  lies.  No !" 
He  raised  a  hand,  sharply,  in  protest,  as  she  began 
hotly  to  interrupt.  "I  mean  that — quite.  I'll  remind 
you  that  I'm  not  a  culprit  boy  but  a  husband — who 
has  at  last  cut  his  leading  strings.  Also  that  we  have 
had  enough  scenes  in  our  pretty  career  together,  one 
more  would  be  too  many." 

"You  take  that  tone — to  me?" 

"Even  to  you." 

But  once  before — when  on  a  hilltop  he  had  stern- 
ly demanded,  "Do  you  make  this  a  condition?"^-* 


204    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

had  she  glimpsed  this  side  of  Mark  Truitt.  She  was 
quick  to  perceive,  when  her  interest  was  threatened. 
Now  intuition  read  aright  from  his  new  tone  that 
this  easy  complaisant  husband  who  had  granted  all 
her  demands,  humored  her  caprices  and  meekly  sub- 
mitted to  her  tempers,  whom  she  had  grown  almost 
consciously  to  regard  as  a  convenient  agency  for  her 
purposes,  his  ministry  to  her  whims  but  the  natural 
and  proper  fulfilment  of  his  prime  function  as  a 
husband,  had  indeed  and  at  last  rebelled.  She  did 
not  know  how  or  why,  but  she  knew  that  the  man's 
iron  quality,  which  had  won  for  her  the  things  she 
craved,  was  now  turned  against  her.  She  stared,  too 
amazed  for  anger. 

"Why,  what  do  you  mean  ?" 
"You  may  take  it  as  a  declaration  of  independ- 
ence." 

"Are   you   thinking,"    she    gasped,    "of — of   di- 
vorce?" 

"Not   yet.      That   may    come,    though.      It    de- 
pends— "    He  even  smiled. 

She  tried  a  weapon  that  had  been  effective,  her 
pose  of  long-suffering  injured  innocence.  But 
Unity,  like  all  the  pampered,  was  a  coward.  He 
was,  intuition  again  told  her,  capable  of  carrying  out 
the  cool  menace  in  his  last  words.  The  pose  broke 
down  miserably.  Forgetting  the  anger  in  which  she 
had  come  to  the  interview,  she  went  toward  him 
with  a  frightened  whimpering  cry. 
"Oh,  Mark!" 


TROPHIES  205 

He  turned  away  with  a  careless  lift  of  his  shoul- 
ders and  a  curt,  "Good  night." 

Alone  in  his  workroom  he  sat  before  the  fire, 
staring  despondently  into  the  dancing  flames. 

He  knew  that  on  the  sudden  impulse  of  his  resent- 
ment he  had  defined  anew  the  relation  between  him 
and  Unity  and  had  freed  himself  from  the  thousand 
and  one  petty  irritations  that  had  eaten  away 
his  endurance.  But  he  could  find  no  joy  in  victory 
over  a  weak  shallow  woman.  Freedom  could  not 
assuage  the  gnawing  hunger  of  his  loneliness. 
I  A  profound  disgust  filled  him,  a  sense  of  loss  and 
cheat.  His  achievements  were  as  nothing.  The 
scene  he  had  just  passed  through,  climax  to  eight 
years  of  domestic  discord  and  discontent,  seemed  to 
sum  up  his  striving.  For  this  he  had  survived  the 
trials  of  the  mills,  defied  and  conquered  physical 
weakness  and  suffering,  held  himself  down  to  the 
hard,  ascetic,  narrowing  grind.  He  had  schooled 
himself  to  meekness  under  a  tongue  with  a  genius 
for  provocation,  swallowed  his  disappointment  and 
refused  to  seek  elsewhere,  as  did  other  men,  what 
his  own  home  could  not  afford.  For  this ! — it  was 
a  scanty  recompense. 

"I  have  been  a  fool,"  he  said.     "I  have  given  up 
enough.     Now  I  will  let  go." 

As  well  as  he  could,  he  tried  to  keep  that  promise 
to  himself. 


CHAPTER  X1Y 

IN  THE  MOLD 

THEN  began  what  promised  to  become  a  rake's 
progress.  Mark  sought  out  new  companions 
and  got  himself  invited  to  join  their  revels.  He 
tried  hard,  at  first  recklessly,  then  determinedly  and 
then  wistfully  to  enter  into  the  spirit  of  dissipation. 
The  attempt  was  a  flat  failure.  He  had  been  too 
long  under  self-control  to  find  pleasure,  even  distrac- 
tion, in  license.  The  thoroughgoing  habit  of  mind 
that  looked  unerringly  for  the  last  result  saw 
through  at  once  to  the  dregs  in  the  cup.  His  com- 
panions privately  laughed  at  the  spectacle  of  this 
hard  serious  man  awkwardly  essaying  the  role  of 
devil  of  a  fellow ;  but  for  the  humor  he  thus  unwit- 
tingly provided  they  would  soon  have  got  rid  of 
him  as  a  death's-head  at  their  feasts.  He  succeeded 
only  in  still  further  impairing  his  health,  in  acquiring 
a  bad  taste  in  the  mouth  and  relaxing  all  along  the 
line  his  habit  of  rigid  abstemiousness. 

After  a  few  months  he  returned  to  the  old  rou- 
tine. 

"I  hear,"  Henley  interrupted  a  consultation  one 
day  to  remark,  "you've  been  sowing  wild  oats.  Got 
'em  all  harvested?" 

206 


IN    THE    MOLD  207 

Mark  nodded,  grinning  sheepishly.  "Crop's  in 
the  barn — and  for  sale  cheap.  I  agree  with  the 
prophet  that  all  is  vanity." 

"What  made  you  do  it?" 

"I  don't  know.  To  see  what  it's  like,  I  guess.  But 
I  didn't  have  the  knack  of  it." 

"Trouble  at  home,"  thought  Henley  shrewdly. 

Aloud  he  said,  "I  imagine  not.  You'd  better  stick 
to  business,  where  you  fit  in." 

"I  sometimes  think  that's  all  vanity,  too." 

"At  least  we  have  something  to  be  vain  over. 
And  on  the  whole  there's  more  romance  in  making 
steel  than  in  helping  to  support  the  Tenderloin." 

Mark  made  a  gesture  of  disgust.  After  a  frown- 
ing pause,  he  answered,  "I  don't  know.  The  trouble 
is,  I've  lost  the  romantic  point  of  view.  To  me  the 
business  is  nothing  but  a  money-making  machine 
now — and  something  to  do.  I  wonder  why  we  work 
so  hard  to  get  money  we  don't  need.  We  get  no 
good  out  of  it.  Timothy  Woodhouse  gets  more 
pleasure  out  of  his  flying  machines  that  won't  fly." 

"Just  wait,"  said  Henley  dryly,  "until  somebody 
tries  to  take  it  away  from  you.  Nearly  every  man 
of  unusual  vitality  goes  sooner  or  later  through  the 
stage  of  questioning  the  existing  scheme  of  things. 
Things  are,  is  all  the  answer  he  gets.  The  sooner 
he  quits  asking  questions,  the  better  for  his  peace  of 
mind." 

They  returned  to  the  matter  in  hand,  which  was 
the  fleecing  of  Timothy  Woodhouse. 

No  one  would  have  been  more  surprised  than 


208     THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

Timothy  to  learn  that  he  had  any  fleece  worthy  of 
the  attention  of  such  shearers  as  Henley  and  Truitt. 
But  years  before  a  Lochinvar  had  come  out  of  the 
West  with  stock  to  sell  in  the  Iroquois  Iron  Ore 
Mining,  Development  and  Transportation  Com- 
pany. He  had  a  gifted  tongue.  He  departed  for  his 
own  place,  a  richer  and  doubtless  a  wiser  man,  hav- 
ing received  a  profitable  lesson  in  the  credulity  of  his 
fellows.  Later  inspection  revealed  that  the  long- 
named  company's  properties  consisted  of  an  im- 
mense field  of  admittedly  good  ore,  but  its  develop- 
ment work  only  of  the  extraction  of  the  samples  so 
proudly  exhibited  by  the  promoter  and  its  transpor- 
tation facilities  of  a  franchise  to  build  a  railroad 
through  three  hundred  miles  of  wilderness.  In 
those  days  the  building  of  railroads  was  not  lightly 
undertaken.  The  investment  seemed  to  fall  short  of 
Lochinvar's  prospectus. 

"Naturally !"  Timothy  once  said  ruefully.  "Since 
I  invested." 

But  a  time  had  come  when  makers  of  steel  began 
to  operate  on  a  larger  scale  and  to  look  far  ahead 
into  the  future.  The  MacGregor  company  conceived 
the  project  of  buying  that  ore  field  and  building  that 
railroad.  It  commenced  secretly  and  leisurely  pick- 
ing up  blocks  of  stock  in  Lochinvar's  company;  it 
could  be  bought  for  the  proverbial  song.  But  Hen- 
ley got  wind  of  it.  He,  too,  began  buying  stock, 
secretly  and  swiftly,  also  for  a  song.  By  the  time 
the  MacGregor  company  learned  of  his  rivalry,  he 


IN    THE    MOLD  209 

needed  but  a  thousand  shares  to  own  control  of  the 
company,  its  properties  and  franchises. 

"And  I  know  just  where  those  shares  are  to  be 
had,"  Henley  told  Mark.  "Do  you  know  one  Tim- 
othy Woodhouse?" 

"I  bought  my  house  from  him.  And  he  wants  me 
to  lend  him  money  to  build  his  new  flying  machine. 
He  came  to  me,"  Mark  chuckled,  "as  one  inventor 
to  another." 

"Get  that  stock,"  Henley  commanded.  "Act  quick 
and  you  can  get  it  cheap.  We  can't  build  that  rail- 
road. Or  rather,  we  won't.  'Let  the  other  fellow 
blaze  the  path !' '  This  sneering  quotation  was  from 
the  illustrious  but  cautious  Quinby.  "That's  what 
comes  from  working  with  a  coward.  But  that's 
no  reason  why  we  shouldn't  turn  an  honest  dollar  at 
the  expense  of  MacGregor,  is  it?" 

It  is  not,  however,  true,  as  alleged  in  the  bill  in 
equity  Timothy  was  afterward  induced  by  Mac- 
Gregor agents  to  file  against  Mark,  that  "the  said 
Truitt  falsely  and  fraudulently  and  with  intent  to 
deceive  and  defraud,  represented  to  the  said  Wood- 
house  that  said  stock  was  of  no  value  whatsoever, 
the  while  knowing  that  said  stock  had  the  value 
hereinbefore  set  forth."  Mark,  who  prided  himself 
on  his  honesty,  was  always  careful  not  to  lay  his 
projects  open  to  legal  interference.  In  this  case, 
that  special  Providence  which  seems  to  guide  the 
schemes  of  men  of  such  honesty,  graciously  rendered 
legal  fraud  unnecessary. 


210    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

"By  George!"  he  exclaimed  when  at  their  next 
meeting  Timothy,  with  the  model  before  them,  had 
explained  his  plans  for  the  new  machine.  "By 
George!  It  may  be — it  may  just  be — that  you've 
hit  it.  It  sounds  plausible,  anyhow." 

"I  prize  your  opinion,"  said  Timothy  gratefully, 
"the  more  because  you've  done  something  mechan- 
ically yourself.  I  meet  so  much  skepticism.  Do 
you  think  you'd  care  to  finance  this?" 

"Well,"  Mark  returned  to  caution,  "after  all, 
aerial  navigation  is  hardly  in  my  line.  I  really  ought 
to  have  some  security,  don't  you  think?" 

"I'll  give  you,"  proposed  Timothy  eagerly,  "a 
half  interest  in  the  machine." 

Mark  seemed  to  be  fighting  down  an  impulse. 
But  he  shook  his  head.  "You  see,  its  value  would  be 
scientific  rather  than  commercial.  And  I'm  just  a 
plain  money-grubber,  you  know." 

Timothy  sighed.  "That  ends  it,  I  guess.  All  I've 
got  is  mortgaged  to  the  limit  now.  I'm  disappointed, 
though." 

"Still,"  Mark  went  on  slowly,  "I'd  like  to  do  it. 
Haven't  you  anything  that  would  give  business  in- 
stinct even  an  excuse  to  be  silent  ?" 

"Nothing.  Unless,"  Timothy  ventured  timidly, 
"you  could  call  Iroquois  Iron  an  excuse." 

Mark  grinned  broadly.     "I've  heard  of  that  bub 
ble." 

Timothy,  too,  grinned,  though  unhappily.  "Bub- 
ble, I'm  afraid,  expresses  it  exactly." 

Mark  spent  a  minute  in  frowning  study  of  the 


IN   THE   MOLD 

model.  "It  would  be  something,"  he  admitted  at 
last,  "to  contribute  even  money  to  what  might  turn 
out  to  be  the  invention  of  the  age.  I  believe — I 
believe  I'll  take  the  excuse."  He  made  a  sudden 
reckless  gesture.  "I'll  do  better.  I'll  go  the  whole 
hog  and  buy  the  stock.  Mr.  Woodhouse,  you  would 
talk  the  birds  out  of  the  trees!" 

It  was  ridiculously  easy. 

But  the  event  had  a  sequel.  Scarcely  a  week 
passed  when  Timothy  returned.  Timothy  was  evi- 
dently excited. 

"Have  you  discovered  some  new  important  prin- 
ciple of  your  machine?"  Mark  inquired. 

"No,"  Timothy  answered.  "I  have  come  to  buy 
back  that  stock." 

"Oh,  no !    I'm  satisfied  with  my  bargain." 

"But,"  Timothy  explained  innocently,  "I  have 
discovered  that  it  has  a  value  in  excess — very  much 
in  excess — of  what  you  paid  me  for  it." 

"The  less  reason  then,"  Mark  smiled,  "why  I 
should  sell  it  back  to  you." 

"But,"  Timothy  swallowed  hard  and  down  went 
pride,  "you  don't  understand.  It  would  be  a  great 
favor  to  me.  I  have  been  careless — I  may  as  well 
speak  out  and  say  that  I  am  a  very  poor  business 
man.  I  have  lost  almost  everything  I  inherited. 
What  is  left  is  mortgaged  almost  to  full  value,  ex- 
cept this  stock  which  I  now  find  I  can  sell  for  enough 
to  clean  up  my  obligations  and  give  me  a  new  start." 

"And  which  is  now  mine." 

"Which  is  now  yours,  through  a  hard  bargain — 


212    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

an  inadvertently  hard  bargain,  of  course,"  Timothy 
added  hastily.  The  troubled  look  in  his  eyes  deep- 
ened. "And  now  I  come  to  you  as  one  gentleman 
to  another,  to  ask  you  to  release  me  from  it." 

"That  would  hardly  be  businesslike." 

"But  this  is  not  business.  I  said,  as  one  gentleman 
to  another."  Timothy  was  guiltless  of  humor- 
ous intent.  "For  myself  I  shouldn't  think  of  dis- 
turbing any  advantage  your  interest  in  my  work 
might  accidentally  give  you.  But  to  my  wife  and 
daughter,  who  are  entirely  dependent  upon  me,  this 
would  mean  much." 

"Isn't  it  a  little  late,  after  wasting  your  substance 
in  riotous  invention,  to  begin  thinking  of  them? 
Besides,"  Mark  looked  at  his  watch  pointedly,  "I 
hardly  see  your  right  to  ask  me  to  give  them  the  con- 
sideration you've  never  given  them." 

Timothy  flushed  painfully,  rising.  "You  refuse, 
then?" 

"I  do." 

"Then  you  had  this  stock  in  mind  all  along?" 

"If  you'd  made  as  shrewd  a  guess  before — "  Mark 
grinned. 

Timothy  put  off  his  suppliant  attitude.  He  drew 
himself  up  to  his  full  height  and  squinted  con- 
temptuously at  Mark  through  his  spectacles.  And, 
although  long  neglect  of  the  vanities  of  this  world 
has  lost  him  the  fine  seigniorial  air  that  is  the  birth- 
right of  the  citizens  of  Jericho,  he  was  not  altogether 
ridiculous. 

"I  was  told  you  are  apt  to  do  this  sort  of  thing." 


IN    THE    MOLD  213 

"The  loser  in  a  deal,"  Mark  reminded  him  coldly, 
"always  finds  something  to  criticize.  If  there's  noth- 
ing else  I  can  do  for  you — good  day,  Mr.  Wood- 
house." 

"So  this  is  what  you  call  a  deal  ?  I  should  choose 
another  term.  I  shall  take  enough  of  your  time  to 
give  you  my  view  of  it.  You  came  to  me  to  get 
that  stock,  but  you  did  not  come  frankly.  You  re- 
sorted to  subterfuge.  You  flattered  me.  You  took 
advantage  of  your  inside  knowledge  of  its  value 
and  of  the  fact  that  I'm  rather  a  fool  in  such  matters 
to  get  it  absurdly  cheap.  But  I  suppose  one  need 
hardly  expect  particularity  of  conduct  from  your 
sort." 

Mark  sneered.  "At  least  you  felt  no  obligation 
to  particularity  of  conduct  when  you  thought  you 
were  getting  a  good  round  sum  for  something  of 
no  value  at  all." 

"That,"  said  Timothy  with  dignity,  "I  supposed 
and  you  pretended  was  practically  a  gift  to  science. 
I  shall  keep  you  no  longer,  sir." 

And  Timothy  stalked  away.  For  several  days 
Mark's  familiars  observed  in  him  an  unusual  irrita- 
bility of  temper. 

Steel  had  come  into  its  own.  It  was  the  first 
principality  of  industry.  Swiftly  as  the  sun  seeks 
its  zenith,  its  leaders  were  rising  to  power  and  pres- 
tige, doing  big  things  in  a  big,  bold,  precedent-defy- 
ing fashion  that  stirred  the  world  to  a  just  admira- 
tion. And  above  the  others — in  the  estimation  of 
all  who  did  not  march  with  the  army  of  steel — 


214     THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK   TRUITT 

towered  that  giant  MacGregor,  and  in  his  shadow 
but  too  big  to  be  obscured  wholly,  Jeremiah  Quinby, 
their  names  and  fame  known  wherever  the  stout 
fabric  was  used. 

Princes  royal  also  of  philanthropy,  as  well  as  of 
industry !  For,  though  hitherto  the  Scot  had  reigned 
solitary  in  the  realm  of  beneficence,  Jeremiah  Quinby 
now  emerged  from  the  shadow,  and  for  a  brief  but 
shining  hour,  took  stand  beside  him,  in  height  and 
breadth  and  thickness  neither  less  nor  greater  than 
his  rival. 

After  many  years  Quinby's  project  was  a  fact, 
the  more  splendid  for  the  delay.  It  stood  just  across 
the  street  from  MacGregor's  library.  This  proxim- 
ity called  for  a  comparison,  by  which  the  Institute  of 
Paleontology  suffered  no  whit.  Somehow  its  noble 
lines  and  masses,  in  exact  copy  of  the  Parthenon, 
seemed  to  suggest  in  its  founder  a  simple  majesty  of 
character  not  shared  by  the  author  of  the  elaborate 
library. 

MacGregor  could  not  have  believed  that  a  com- 
parison was  intended,  since  he  accepted  an  invitation 
to  share  with  Quinby  himself  and  an  ex-president  of 
the  United  States  the  honors  on  the  occasion  of  the 
dedication.  He,  as  did  the  ex-president,  made  a 
speech,  in  which  he  paid  a  high  tribute  to  his  "broth- 
er in  the  great  work  of  distributing  surplus  wealth". 
This  tribute  Quinby,  when  his  turn  came,  formally 
assigned  to  "the  thousands  of  obscurely  faithful" 
who  had  "given  their  strength,  their  courage,  their 


IN    THE    MOLD  215 

patience  and  talent,  nay,  oft  their  very  lives,  to  up- 
building the  industry  which  made  this  project  possi- 
ble." Some  of  his  hearers  interpreted  this  merely 
as  the  too  great  modesty  of  superlative,  triumphant 
genius.  But  when,  expanding  this  text,  he  thus 
brought  his  peroration  to  a  close :  "Let  labor  and 
capital,  the  Siamese  twins  of  production,  dwell  to- 
gether in  unity,  in  amity,  in  the  forbearance  that 
springs  from  love!"  the  audience  applauded  enthu- 
siastically, reckless  of  damage  to  new  kid  gloves. 
The  few  frowns  that  appeared  involuntarily  were 
lost  to  view  in  the  general  joyousness  of  the  occa- 
sion. 

That  evening,  in  the  cella  of  the  institute,  was 
held  a  great  reception.  The  Truitts  were  there — as 
who  that  counted  was  not? — but  together  only 
until  they  had  reached  the  end  of  the  receiving 
line.  Mark  betook  himself  to  a  chair  in  a  corner 
occupied  by  the  skeleton  of  some  prehistoric  monster 
and  there  watched  the  crowd. 

He  had  again  the  sense  of  disappointment  that 
latterly  had  been  his  portion.  The  scene  and  his 
participation  in  it — even  to  the  extent  of  looking  on 
through  the  leg  bones  of  a  reconstructed  dinosaur — 
were  one  of  the  trophies  of  his  campaign  of  con- 
quest, one  of  the  few  incidents  that  distinguished 
victor  from  vanquished.  Once  he  had  thought  much 
upon  victory  and  its  trophies.  But  for  them  when 
achieved,  as  for  the  sowing  of  wild  oats,  he  could 
find  neither  knack  nor  taste.  He  felt  resentfully, 


216    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

bitterly  alone.  Also,  though  he  would  not  admit  it 
to  himself,  he  was  almost  at  the  end  of  his  physi- 
cal resources. 

"What  holds  me?"  he  asked  himself  moodily. 
"Why,  since  I'm  not  cut  out  for  it,  don't  I  throw 
it  over?" 

His  only  answer  was  another  question.  "But 
what  else  could  I  do?" 

He  caught  a  glimpse  of  Unity,  a  beaming  happy 
Unity,  the  center  of  a  laughing  group,  and  scowled 
angrily.  .  .  .  Though  their  life  had  been  super- 
ficially unchanged,  he  had  had  his  freedom.  It  had 
been  a  partial  useless  freedom  that  he  did  not  want, 
paid  for  by  the  loss  of  even  the  pretense  of  af- 
fection, by  an  ill-disguised  mutual  aversion. 

"But  what  does  she  care?"  he  sneered  bitterly. 
"She  has  everything  she  wants — and  I  pay.  I've 
been  sacrificed  to  the  vanity  of  a  silly  selfish 
woman." 

He  was  honest  enough  to  answer  that.  "No,  that 
isn't  true.  She  couldn't  have  done  it  without  the 
help  of  my  own  vanity." 

His  reflections  were  interrupted  by  a  hand  on  his 
shoulder.  Henley  sat  down  beside  him. 

"Taking  it  in?" 

Mark  nodded. 

"We're  outshone." 

"As  the  stars  by  the  sun.    Do  you  care?" 

"No!"  snarled  Henley,  in  a  tone  that  gave  his 
words  the  lie.  Mark  repressed  another  sneer.  Here 


IN    THE    MOLD  217 

was  Henley,  the  man  of  magnificent  achievements, 
of  real  genius,  jealous  as  a  woman  over  Quinby's 
hollow  glory! 

"He  seems,"  Mark  nodded  toward  the  resplendent 
Quinby,  "to  attract  the  women." 

"It's  mutual.  As  I  happen  to  know." 

"So?  I'd  have  classed  him  with  the  vestal  vir- 
gins. Isn't  he  a  little  old  for  the  woman  game  now, 
though?" 

"He's  in  his  fifties,"  Henley  said,  "and  well  pre- 
served. And  the  man  who  has  nothing  to  do  but  to 
idle  around  the  globe  and  spend  the  money  others 
make  is  always  easy  picking  for  the  Delilahs." 

"Quinby  doesn't  just  meet  my  notion  of  a  Sam- 
son." 

"Samson,"  returned  Henley,  who  felt  the  better 
for  his  outburst,  "was  a  penny-wit." 

Others  also — :Higsb«e  and  Saunders  and  Hare — 
now  sought  the  friendly  shelter  of  the  dinosaur. 
They  were  big  capable  men,  each  a  specialist  without 
a  peer  in  his  own  line,  but  the  days  of  furnace  and 
rolls  were  as  yet  too  recent  to  allow  them  ease  or 
grace  on  such  occasions.  The  tenor  of  their  conver- 
sation indicated  a  lack  of  reverence  for  the  science 
of  paleontology.  It  was  Higsbee  who  discerned  the 
illogic. 

"Hell!"  he  said  crudely.  "Didn't  we  build  this? 
Then  why  make  light  of  it  ?  Let's  go  out  and  collect 
our  share  of  the  glory." 

Later,  Henley  and  Mark,  too,  left  their  refuge 


and  sauntered  through  the  crowd.  It  chanced  that 
Quinby  espied  them.  He  deserted  an  admiring 
group  to  greet  them  paternally. 

"Have  you  seen  the  ex-president?  He  wants  to 
talk  with  you." 

This  to  Henley,  who  muttered  something  ungra- 
cious about  a  "dead  lion".  Quinby  shook  his  head 
in  good-humored  protest  and  turned  to  Mark. 

"You  were  at  the  dedication,  of  course  ?" 

"No,"  Mark  confessed,  "I  was  working." 

"Truitt,"  Henley  quoted  facetiously,  "is  one  of 
the  obscurely  faithful  who  made  this  noble  project 
possible." 

"Ah!"  Quinby  breathed.  "It  is  a  noble  project, 
is  it  not?  I  can't  be  sufficiently  grateful  that  I  was 
inspired  to  think  of  it." 

"The  band  wagon,"  Henley  admitted,  "has  its 
uses." 

Quinby  laughed.  "The  same  old  vinegary,  skep- 
tical Tom!  The  years  haven't  changed  you." 

"Not  even,"  Henley  rejoined  dryly,  "in  my  views 
on  labor.  Were  you  inspired  to  hatch  those  Siamese 
twins?  That  pair  of  chickens  will  come  home  to 
roost  some  day." 

Quinby's  eyes  narrowed  suddenly.  For  a  moment 
he  and  Henley  looked  at  each  other  steadily.  Then 
the  magnanimity  that  is  philanthropy's  handmaiden 
asserted  itself.  He  laughed  again. 

"Come,  come!  I  can't  let  you  spoil  my  pleasure 
in  this  evening.  A  lifelong  dream  has  been  realized, 
thanks  partly  to  you" — he  placed  a  hand  on  Hen- 


IN    THE    MOLD  219 

ley's  shoulder  " — commander  in  the  field.  And 
to  you" — he  laid  the  other  hand  on  Mark  " — his 
chief  lieutenant." 

It  was  a  striking  tableau.  Quinby,  modestly  una- 
ware of  the  many  eyes  upon  them,  held  it  a  moment, 
then  gracefully  withdrew. 

"My  commander  in  the  field!"  sneered  Henley. 
"Drunk!  Blind  drunk  with  self-importance!" 

"How  much  better  are  we  ?" 

"Sometimes,"  Henley  said  coldly,  "you  talk  like 
a  fool."  He  strode  away. 

Mark,  left  alone,  began  to  pick  his  path  gingerly 
around  trailing  gowns  and  chattering  groups,  in 
search  of  fresh  air  and  quiet.  But  once,  as  he  was 
passing  a  group  of  men,  a  remark  arrested  his  atten- 
tion. He  did  not  know  the  speaker,  but  he  halted 
sharply  and  addressed  him. 

"Who  was  that  you  said   committed   suicide?" 

The  man  looked  at  him  strangely  a  moment  be- 
fore answering. 

"Timothy  Woodhouse.  It  was  practically  suicide. 
He  insisted  on  going  up  in  his  new  flying  machine. 
Broke  his  neck,  of  course." 

Mark  passed  on  quickly.  Not  so  quickly  but  that 
he  overheard  an  explanation. 

"The  man  that  skinned  Woodhouse." 


CHAPTER  XV 

STUFF  OF  DREAMS 

WHEN  his  spirit  for  it  was  dying,  Mark's  cam- 
paign of  conquest  came  to  its  grand  climax : 
he  became  a  stockholder  in  the  Quinby  Steel  Com- 
pany, one  of  the  "young  partners"  of  whom  Quinby, 
in  all  things  abreast  of  his  great  rival,  was  wont  to 
speak  with  such  paternal  enthusiasm.  Up  to  this 
time  he  had  been  merely  an  employee,  handsomely 
paid  but  finding  his  chief  reward  from  Henley's 
profitable  friendship. 

When,  through  Henley,  Mark  laid  the  matter  of 
partnership  informally  before  Quinby,  he  was  al- 
lowed to  see  through  the  philanthropist  to — Quinby. 
At  first  Quinby  unctuously  but  firmly  refused  his 
assent,  turning  arguments  aside  by  the  simple  expe- 
dient of  ignoring  them.  When  Henley,  at  whose 
suggestion  Mark  had  demanded  the  right  to  pur- 
chase stock,  insisted  with  rising  anger,  Quinby 
donned  a  frigid  dignity. 

"Do  you  want  the  company  to  lose  Truitt?"  Hen- 
ley demanded. 

"I  can  not  conceive,"  Quinby  answered  coldly, 
"that  any  man  who  owes  as  much  to  my  company  as 
Truitt  does  could  be  so  lacking  in  loyalty  and  all  fine 
sensibilities  as  to  desert  me." 

220 


STUFF   OF    DREAMS  221 

"That,"  said  Henley  curtly,  "is  damned  nonsense. 
The  company  owes  more  to  Truitt  than  the  stock  we 
ask  can  ever  repay,  more  than  to  any  other  man — 
with  one  exception." 

"I  am  glad,"  Quinby  thawed  slightly,  "that  you 
make  an  exception." 

"Yes.     Myself." 

Quinby's  face  was  a  study. 

"And,"  Henley  continued,  "you  can  let  him  have 
this  stock  or  lose  Truitt  and  me." 

Thereupon  Henley  wrote  out  and  gave  to  Quinby 
his  resignation  from  the  chairmanship.  There  was  a 
tense  silence  while  Quinby  studied  the  paper. 

"Very  well,"  he  said  at  last.  He  tore  the  resig- 
nation into  little  bits. 

But  it  was  a  graceful  surrender.  During  the 
pause  Quinby  had  regained  his  poise.  He  was  once 
more  the  gracious  patron,  apparently  blind  to  Hen- 
ley's show  of  dislike. 

"Ah !  my  dear  Tom,"  he  shook  his  head  smilingly, 
"that  was  hardly  fair.  You  played  upon  my  affec- 
tion. You  know  there  is  no  sacrifice  I  would  not 
make  rather  than  lose  you." 

"Humph!"  grunted  Henley.  "This  is  no  sacri- 
fice." 

"Of  course,"  the  philanthropist  went  on,  "Truitt 
takes  under  our  agreement." 

And  this  launched  another  long  argument.  For 
under  the  Quinby  company's  agreement — borrowed, 
indeed,  from  his  friend  and  rival,  MacGregor — any 
stockholder,  upon  written  demand  by  three-fourths 


222    THE  AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

of  the  stockholders  owning  three-fourths  of  the  out- 
standing shares,  could  be  compelled  to  surrender  his 
stock  at  its  "book  value" ;  a  provision  from  the  threat 
of  which  Quinby,  owning  the  majority  of  the  stock, 
alone  was  exempt.  Had  his  own  interest  not  been  so 
deeply  concerned  Mark  might  have  relished  the  spec- 
tacle of  the  tremendous  arrogant  Henley  hurling 
himself  in  vain  against  the  paternal  Quinby.  Mark 
did  not  deceive  himself  as  to  Henley's  real  purpose, 
which  was  not  to  serve  him  but  to  set  up  a  precedent 
to  upset  the  agreement. 

"It  isn't  fair  to  Truitt,"  Henley  protested  vehe- 
mently. "It  isn't  fair  to  any  one  but  you.  How  can 
he,  how  can  I,  how  can  any  of  us,  know  when  you're 
going  to  make  a  deal  with  the  others  to  kick  him  out 
and  cheat  him  out  of  the  real  value  of  his  stock?" 

Tact  was  the  one  weapon  Henley  knew  not  how 
to  wield.  Quinby  gave  him  a  pained  glance. 

"You  know  I'm  not  a  hard  man.  And  you  know 
that  is  a  contingency  not  likely  to  happen." 

"It  happened  to  Caulder  and  Stebbins  and  New." 

"Ah!  But  they,"  Quinby  reminded  him,  "got  an 
exaggerated  idea  of  their  importance  to  the  com- 
pany." 

Henley  glared.    Quinby  smiled. 

The  mellifluous  voice  flowed  on.  "You  should 
know  that  men  in  my  position  may  not  consider  their 
private  impulses.  Our  wealth  is  a  trust — a  sacred 
trust."  He  paused,  perhaps  to  control  the  rising 
emotion  inspired  by  thought.  "The  secret  of  my 
success  has  been  harmony  in  my  organization.  Har- 


STUFF    OF    DREAMS  223 

mony  I  must  have — I  will  have.  And  so  I  must  re- 
serve the  right  and  means  to  oust  any  who  seek  to 
disturb  it.  The  work  to  which  I  have  given  myself 
— the  projects  you,  I  fear,  hold  so  lightly — depends 
too  closely  on  my  business  success  to  allow  me  to 
violate  successful  precedents.  Even,"  he  beamed  on 
Mark,  "even  for  the  sake  of  your  brilliant  young 
friend.  Even  for  you." 

Quinby's  face  had  not  put  off  its  smiling  benevo- 
lent mask.  His  voice  had  not  risen  nor  lost  by  so 
much  as  a  note  its  wonted  musical  stately  cadence. 
But  Mark,  a  silent  and  almost  forgotten  listener, 
knew  that  in  the  last  words  menace  spoke  as  clear 
and  venomous  as  in  the  hiss  of  a  snake.  He  could 
interpret  the  menace ;  Henley  had  rested  too  securely 
in  his  importance  to  the  company;  he  now  had  his 
warning;  like  Damocles'  sword  the  power  of  Quin- 
by's contract  rested  heavy  overhead. 

If  he  had  not  known  from  Quinby's  voice,  Mark 
would  have  understood  from  him  to  whom  the 
menace  had  been  spoken.  Henley's  hands,  resting 
on  the  desk,  clenched  until  the  nails  bit  into  the 
palms.  The  ugly  imperious  face  was  deathly  white. 
His  black  eyes  blazed.  Mark  thought  for  a  moment 
he  was  about  to  spring  upon  Quinby  and  inflict 
physical  injury,  or  at  least  hurl  at  the  vain  shallow 
poseur  the  splendid  defiance  of  the  man  of  real 
worth,  of  invincible  and  unpurchasable  spirit.  Be- 
cause he  had  a  profound  respect  and  a  sort  of  love 
for  Henley,  he  wanted  to  see  and  hear  that  defiance. 
He  forgot  his  own  interest  in  the  scene. 


224     THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK   TRUITT 

Henley  reached  again,  convulsively,  for  pen  and 
paper.  Quinby  raised  a  hand — a  beautiful,  soft, 
perfectly  manicured  member — in  humorous  protest. 

"My  dear  Tom!"  How  the  purring  paternal 
phrase,  addressed  to  Henley,  stung!  Mark  felt  the 
hot  blood  rise,  resentful  for  his  master.  "If  you  are 
about  to  resign  again,  I  beg  of  you,  consider.  I  have 
made  one  concession  to  that  threat.  But  if  you  make 
it  again,  I  shall  be  obliged  to  break  off  a  relation  that 
has  been  both  pleasant  and  profitable.  It  will  cost 
me  something,  perhaps,  but — it  will  cost  you  more." 

"Now!"  muttered  Mark. 

Now  was  the  time  to  hurl  defiance,  to  overwhelm 
Quinby  and  Quinby's  power  under  manly  scorn. 
.  .  .  Quinby,  outwardly  serene  as  midsummer's 
skies,  smiled  on.  Henley  was  silent.  The  blazing 
anger  in  his  eyes  died  down  to  a  smoldering,  sullen, 
futile  rage.  The  pen  dropped  from  his  hand. 

What  a  shattering  of  idols  was  there!  Mark 
turned  away  that  he  might  not  see. 

His  glance  fell  upon  Quinby.  The  mask  of  benev- 
olence had  been  pulled  aside.  Ugly  triumph  and  still 
uglier  hate  shone.  In  that  moment  Quinby's  revenge 
for  a  thousand  sneers  and  the  open  contempt  of 
years  was  taken.  Mark  hated  him. 

After  a  long  heavy  silence  Quinby  turned  to 
Mark.  "Do  you  accept  the  agreement  ?" 

"It  seems  to  be  Hobson's  choice." 

Quinby  rose  and  took  Mark's  right  hand  in  both 
of  his. 


STUFF   OF   DREAMS  225 

"Let  me  be  the  first  to  welcome  you  into  the  com- 
pany. I'm  sure  we  shall  be — harmonious." 

"I  can  see,"  Mark  answered  with  a  shrug,  "that 
harmony  pays." 

Quinby  was  gone.  Mark,  sickened  and  saddened, 
watched  a  man,  for  the  moment  mad,  belatedly  giv- 
ing voice  to  his  rage.  He  paced  swiftly  back  and 
forth  across  the  room,  like  the  wild  beast  he  had 
become.  He  cursed  incoherently  the  departed  Quin- 
by, pouring  forth  a  flood  of  coarse  blasphemies. 
He  flung  his  arms  about,  smote  and  kicked  chairs 
and  desk  as  though  they  had  lives  to  be  taken.  This, 
with  Quinby  present,  would  have  struck  a  responsive 
chord  in  Mark's  barbaric  soul.  But  this,  with  Quinby 
gone,  from  the  man  who  had  sat  silent  under  threats, 
called  forth  only  contempt. 

"My  success !  My  company !  My  work !"  Henley 
stopped,  panting  and  glaring,  before  Mark.  "My 
God!  Did  you  hear  him?  Fool — fool — fool!" 

Mark  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Your  mistake  was 
in  thinking  him  a  fool." 

"And  I — /  had  to  sit  there  and  take  his  oily 
threats — " 

"At  least,  you  took  them." 

" — I,  who  made  this  company — I,  who  gave  him 
the  money  to  advertise  himself  around  the  world — 
/__/  I'm  the  fodL  You're  the  fool.  We're  all 
fools,  working  our  lives  out  to  build  up  this  business 
while  he,  who  does  nothing,  gallivants  about  spend- 
ing millions  on  his  accursed  institutes — never  know- 


226    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK   TRUITT 

ing  when  he'll  close  in  on  us  and  rip  us  out  of  our 
jobs  and  rightful  profits — " 

"I  used  to  think  that  about  you,  when  I  was  in  the 
mills.  I  suppose  the  men  think  that  about  us  now." 
Mark's  laugh  was  a  sneer. 

Henley  turned  on  him.  "And  you,"  he  snarled. 
"I  made  you,  too.  And  I  suppose,  when  Quinby 
cracks  his  whip,  you,  too,  will  fall  into  line  and  help 
to  rob  me  of  the  stock  I've  made  valuable.  You, 
with  your  'Harmony  pays' — " 

An  hour  before  Mark  might  have  quailed  before 
Henley's  wrath.  Now  he  did  not  quail. 

"See  here !"  he  said  sharply,  pushing  away  the  fist 
under  his  nose.  "Probably  you're  right.  Probably 
I'll  fall  into  line.  I  hope  not — for  my  own  sake. 
But  you  can  talk  to  me  like  that  when  I  give  you 
the  excuse.  And  now  you,"  he  added  coldly,  "had 
better  pull  yourself  together.  There  are  clerks  with- 
in hearing." 

Henley  dropped  heavily  into  a  chair.  Slowly  the 
paroxysm  subsided.  In  silence  Mark  watched  the 
white,  still  working  face. 

It  was  Henley  who  spoke  first,  and  surprisingly. 
"What  are  you  thinking  ?" 

"I'm  wondering,  does  money  make  cowards  of  us 
all?" 

Henley  stared  hard.  For  a  moment  Mark  thought 
that  again  a  match  had  been  touched  to  the  magazine 
of  his  rage.  Then  the  red  of  shame  crept  into  the 
older  man's  countenance.  He  made  a  gesture  of  de- 
jection. 


STUFF    OF    DREAMS  227 

"You're  a  witness  that  it  does." 

Mark  limped  slowly  away  from  the  Quinby  build- 
ing. Around  him  streamed  and  swirled  the  late 
afternoon  crowd.  The  rattle  of  traffic  and  the  shuf- 
fling of  feet  rose  in  a  hissing  sinister  roar.  Over- 
head hung  a  heavy  pall  of  mingled  smoke  and  fog, 
oppressing  the  senses.  Memory  harked  back  to  an- 
other such  afternoon  when  a  raw  country  youth, 
taking  his  first  plunge  into  this  maelstrom  of  hu- 
manity, caught  the  fancy  of  a  remorseless  voracious 
entity  ready  to  pounce  upon  and  crush  the  weak  and 
the  unwary.  He  smiled  satirically  at  the  simple- 
minded  romantic  youth  thus  recalled  and  at  the 
youth's  fancy. 

"It  was  just  like  him."  He  thought  of  the  young 
adventurer  as  another  person.  "He  didn't  know 
how  easy  it  was — to  the  man  who  knows  what  he 
wants — or  how  it  is  done." 

Now,  by  all  the  rules  of  the  game  he  played,  was 
the  time  to  exult.  The  monster  was  tamed,  or  at 
least  forever  baffled ;  it  need  not,  looking  upon  him, 
lick  its  slobbering  chops.  Whether  or  not  the  part- 
nership— final  trophy  of  Eldorado's  conquest — sur- 
vived Quinby's  treacherous  caprice,  the  adventurer 
would  never  again  know  the  haunting  fear  that 
lashed  the  crowd.  He  had  no  need  to  catch  its  hur* 
rying  pace. 

Yet  he  did  not  exult.  He  had  what  he  had  set  out 
to  win,  and  he  had  it  not.  His  triumph  was  fact.  But 
the  sense  of  it,  the  swelling  of  soul,  the  surging  pas- 
sionate pride  he  had  foretasted  in  his  young  dreams, 


228     THE   AMBITION   OF    MARK   TRUITT 

were  not.     Success  was  but  figures  on  a  balance 
sheet. 

At  every  climax  of  his  campaign  circumstance 

had  stepped  in  to  make  flat  and  bitter  the  cup  of  de- 
sire at  his  lips.  He  had  schooled  his  body  in  frugal- 
ity and  self-denial,  thinking  of  a  future  indulgence; 
when  luxury  and  license  and  pleasure  held  out  their 
arms  habit  refused  him  joy  in  their  embrace.  He 
had  chosen  the  love  that  matched  the  more  nicely  his 
dreams ;  habit  had  confirmed  that  choice  and  taught 
him  the  bitterness  of  a  nagging  wife.  He  had 
dreamed  and  striven  for  conquest,  to  find  himself  a 
slave;  for  in  his  heart  of  hearts  he  believed  that 
when — as  must  some  day  happen — Quinby  cracked 
his  whip  he,  as  Henley  had  said  and  Henley  himself 
had  done,  would  cringe.  He  had  avoided  or  been 
ruthless  to  sever  the  sweetening  ties  of  life,  lest  they 
make  harder  his  climb;  when  he  found  among  the 
successful,  an  advantageous  friendship,  he  must  be 
shown  the  feet  of  clay.  He  had  made  of  himself, 
despite  handicaps,  a  brilliant  efficient  worker,  only 
to  lose  interest  in  his  chosen  work ;  yet  to  the  hard, 
serious,  inelastic  man  he  had  become,  a  day  spent  out 
of  the  routine  was  a  day  miserable.  He  had  suc- 
ceeded in  a  life  in  which  sentiment,  brotherly  kind- 
ness, mercy,  were  the  badges  of  failure;  yet  the 
thought  of  a  weak  Timothy  Woodhouse,  dead  in  an 
hour  of  recklessness  bred  by  a  cheat,  could  drive 
sleep  from  his  pillow. 

It  was  the  less  satisfying  because  he  foresaw  the 
end  of  a  chapter.    He  had  spent  himself:  in  body 


STUFF   OF   DREAMS  229 

— fie  was  no  longer  capable  of  long  intense  applica- 
tion, he  had  fallen  back  upon  the  invalid's  last  resort, 
drugs;  in  mind — the  creative  faculty ' seemed  dead, 
that  very  morning  a  young  man  in  the  mills  had 
announced  an  important  invention  that  was  to 
have  been  Truitt's  magnum  opus  and  upon  which  his 
sterile  brain  had  labored  in  vain;  in  soul — he  could 
no  longer  dream.  And  for  reward  he  had :  the  dry 
fact  of  a  triumph  he  could  not  sense  and  the  pros- 
pect of  an  empty,  useless,  discontented  future. 

He  was  a  critic,  you  see ;  but  not  of  himself.  The 
world  was  out  of  joint 

Passers-by  were  diverted  from  their  own  cares  by 
the  sight  of  a  well-dressed  man  stamping  his  cane 
on  the  pavement  and  muttering  aloud,  "An  evil  fate 
pursues  me.  Other  men  do  as  I  do,  desire  as  I  de- 
sire and  find  content.  Why  can't  I  be  contented — 
and  happy?" 

He  did,  indeed,  but  as  did  other  men  of  his  day 
and  world.  There  was  nothing  in  his  time  to  direct 
his  criticism  upon  himself.  Not  yet  had  a  western 
Peter  the  Hermit  come  preaching  his  crusade,  or  a 
Richard  Yea-and-Nay,  of  theatric  dash  and  vigor,  to 
give  the  movement  form  and  substance :  to  teach  the 
crowd  the  trick  of  scrutinizing  their  neighbors  and 
a  few  to  examine  themselves.  It  was  a  time  when 
a  handful  dealt  in  the  lives  and  needs  and  happiness 
of  the  many  and  covered  the  ugly  traffic,  not  in  ro- 
mance, but  with  unconscious  hypocrisy.  An  occa- 
sional preacher  taught  love,  decency,  unselfishness, 


23o     THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK   TRUITT 

but  he  was  paid  for  that  and  no  one  gave  ear.  The 
exploiters  grew  fat  and  resurrected  an  ancient  the- 
ory to  prove  that  their  power  and  their  profits  were 
divinely  appointed.  When,  swollen  with  vanity,  they 
engaged  in  spectacular  philanthropy,  giving  with 
their  left  hands  of  what  their  right  had  taken,  a 
servile  world  fell  to  its  knees  to  receive  the  tin- 
seled gifts,  humbly  sensible  of  its  unworthiness.  It 
was  a  greedy  age,  an  unthinking  age,  a  smug  age, 
above  all  an  age  of  self,  crowned,  glorified  and  re- 
warded. 

Little  wonder,  then — so  much  are  we  creatures  of 
fashion — that,  when  desire  was  turning  to  ashes  in 
his  mouth,  Mark  Truitt  sought  no  fault  in  himself, 
but  impeached  life. 

A  thousand  faces  streamed  past  him,  unrecog- 
nized and  unrecognizing.  Then,  at  a  corner  where 
two  currents  dammed  each  other,  appeared  one  that 
seemed  oddly  familiar.  It  was  of  an  undistinguished 
homeliness,  pasty  pale,  morose,  matching  well  the 
general  shabbiness  of  its  owner.  At  first  Mark,  con- 
fused by  the  dirty  brown  beard,  did  not  recognize 
him. 

The  man  had  no  doubts.  At  sight  of  Mark  an  evil 
glitter  sprang  into  the  sullen  eyes. 

"You!" 

By  the  hate  that  had  lived  through  fifteen  years 
Mark  placed  him. 

"Piotr  Andzrejzski !" 

"Peter  Anderson,"  the  man  corrected  him. 


STUFF   OF    DREAMS  231 

"That's  a  good  American  name.  I'd  forgotten 
you  had  a  preference."  Mark  smiled  and  held  out  a 
friendly  hand.  "How  are  you,  Peter  Anderson  ?" 

The  hand  was  ignored.  When  Peter  Anderson 
sneered,  his  homeliness  became  almost  grotesque. 

"Since  you're  so  interested,  I  manage  to  keep 
alive." 

"How  do  you  manage  it?" 

"I'm  a  compositor  on  the  Outcry — when  there's 
any  money  for  an  issue." 

"The  Outcry?" 

"You'll  hear  of  it  yet.  It's  the  paper  of  our 
cause." 

Mark  knew  of  but  one  cause  that  employed  the 
capital.  "Socialism,  I  suppose."  He  smiled  indul- 
gently, "I  hope  it's  in  funds  sufficiently  often." 

"I  look  it,  don't  I?" 

The  answer  was  so  obvious  that  Mark  avoided  it. 
"How,"  he  asked  hastily,  "is  Roman?" 

"He  breathes  and  sleeps  and  eats.    But  he's  dead." 

"Is  that  a  Socialist  parable?  I'm  not  a  Socialist, 
so  you'll  have  to  explain." 

"His  mind's  gone.  It  began  to  go  soon  after  you 
stole  his  job.  But  probably  you've  forgotten  that, 
too." 

"I  have  no  recollection,"  said  Mark  coldly,  "of 
any  such  occurrence."  With  a  curt  nod,  he  passed 
on. 

He  had  gone  but  a  few  steps  when  he  halted  and 
looked  back.  Peter,  unmindful  of  elbowing  pedes- 


trians,  was  still  at  the  corner,  glaring  at  him.  It 
came  to  Mark  as  of  a  piece  with  the  failure  of 
dreams,  that  of  his  beautiful  youth,  when  men  loved 
him  so  easily,  this,  the  hatred  that  lived  after  fifteen 
years,  was  his  only  souvenir.  He  winced  at  the 
thought. 

Impulsively  he  turned  and  retraced  his  steps. 

"See  here,  Piotr,"  he  said.  "Let  us  not  use  hard 
names.  There  are  a  good  many  things  we'd  never 
agree  on.  But  we  can  agree  on  this — you're  hard 
up.  I've  been  luckier  than  you.  What  can  I  do  to 
help  you?" 

Piotr's  lips  formed  a  surly,  "Nothing."  But  the 
refusal  did  not  fall.  A  look  of  transparent  craft 
displaced  malevolence. 

"Do  you  mean  that?"  he  asked  suspiciously. 

"I'm  not  in  the  habit — " 

"I  don't  care  about  your  habits,"  Piotr  interrupted 
ungraciously.  "If  you  want  to  do  something,  you 
can  lend  me  a  hundred  dollars." 

"Lend,"  evidently,  was  a  euphemism. 

"What  will  you  do — still,  that's  your  business. 
Of  course,  I  will.  I  wish  you'd  asked  me  something 
harder.  Come  along  to  the  bank." 

The  bank  was  a  few  blocks  away.  Mark  improved 
the  time  by  asking  the  details  of  Roman's  circum- 
stances. Piotr,  sullenness  not  lifted  by  the  pros- 
pect of  money,  answered  shortly.  It  was  a  pitiable 
story  of  descent:  of  the  gradual  dissipation  of  the 
savings  of  Roman's  active  years  and  the  swift  fail- 


STUFF   OF   DREAMS  233 

ure,  through  idleness  and  too  much  alcohol,  of  his 
mental  powers,  leaving  him  and  Hanka  dependent 
upon  Piotr's  scanty  and  uncertain  earnings. 

"Where,"  Mark  asked,  as  they  entered  the  bank, 
"do  you  live  now?" 

"Rose  Alley." 

"Rose  Alley!"    Mark  stopped  short.    "My  God!" 

"What  does  your  sort  know  of  it?" 

"Quite  enough.    Come  along." 

A  few  minutes  later  they  were  in  the  street  again, 
Piotr  the  richer  by  the  sum  he  had  asked. 

They  stood  facing  each  other:  the  strong  man 
who  had  conquered  and  the  inefficient,  one  of  life's 
guerrillas,  who  had  just  taken  of  the  strong  man's 
largess.  But  the  inefficient  was  not  grateful;  a 
hundred  dollars  could  not  conquer  his  hatred. 

"I  s'pose,"  he  sneered,  "you  want  me  to  thank 
you?" 

"No.  If  you  need  more,  come  to  me.  And,  see 
here,  Piotr,  I  want  you  to  get  Roman  and  your 
mother  away  from  Rose  Alley." 

"You  want — !"  The  money  in  his  pocket,  Piotr 
threw  craft  to  the  winds.  "What  have  you  to  do 
with  us?  Do  you  s'pose  we'd  let  you  help  us?" 

"But  you  took—" 

Piotr  chuckled — a  chuckle  of  triumphant  malice. 
"Did  you  think  it  was  for  us?"  The  chuckle  grew 
into  a  laugh,  as  though  he  pondered  some  mammoth 
jest.  "You — you — have  just  paid  for  the  next  issue 
of  the  Outcry!" 


234     THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK   TRUITT 

He  wheeled  and  went  haltingly  away.  Mark 
watched  him  until  he  turned  a  corner. 

"Poor  devil!"  Mark  shook  his  head  pityingly. 
"He's  mad." 

It  was  not  Mark's  habit  to  waste  precious  hours 
wandering  the  crowded  city  streets  in  introspective 
meditation.  He  now  went  to  the  appointment  with 
his  lawyer  to  keep  which  he  had  left  Henley. 

It  was  a  long  and  tedious  consultation,  having  to 
do  with  a  big  real  estate  deal  in  which  Truitt  had 
shown  his  customary  shrewdness.  He  displayed  lit- 
tle interest.  More  than  once  Shirley,  the  lawyer, 
had  to  recall  his  straying  attention.  Shirley  was 
astonished  at  this ;  his  client  was  notable  for  his  con- 
centration on  the  matter  in  hand.  He  would  have 
been  even  more  deeply  astonished,  could  he  have 
looked  upon  the  picture  that  lured  away  Mark's 
thoughts.  But  then,  for  Shirley,  the  name  of  Rose 
Alley  would  have  raised  to  life  no  dead  memories. 

Shirley's  astonishment,  however,  reached  its 
climax  at  the  close  of  the  consultation. 

"It's  a  good  deal,"  he  remarked,  "for  you." 

Mark  answered  with  a  nod  and  opened  another 
subject.  "I  don't  suppose  Timothy  Woodhouse  left 
much." 

"Practically  nothing." 

"How  does  our  case  stand  ?" 

"We'll  win  it." 

"You're  sure  of  that?" 

"Absolutely.  His  estate  will  never  push  it  to 
trial." 


STUFF    OF    DREAMS  235 

"Then  settle  it." 

Shirley  whistled  his  surprise.  "Has  the  philan- 
thropic bee  stung  the  whole  Quinby  concern?"  he 
grinned.  "I  wouldn't  do  that,  though.  It  would  be 
an  admission.  As  a  lawyer,  I  couldn't  advise — " 

"I  don't  ask  advice.    Settle  it." 

Shirley  waved  a  concessive  hand.  "It's  your  case, 
<,»f  course.  For  how  much?  They'll  take  any  fig- 
tire." 

"For  whatever  you  think  fair.  Not  as  a  lawyer, 
however.  Think  of  it,"  Mark  smiled  wryly,  "as  a 
gentleman — if  the  word  means  anything  to  you." 

"It's  your  case,"  Shirley  repeated.  "But  my  no- 
tion is,  people  will  think  you  don't  want  the  publicity 
— for  social  reasons.  That  sort  of  talk — " 

Mark  rose  abruptly.  "I  can't  help,"  he  replied, 
with  an  impatient  frown,  "what  people  think,  can 
I?  Fix  it  up  as  soon  as  you  can." 

But  the  day's  adventures  were  not  ended.  The 
ghost  of  Timothy  Woodhouse  could  not  oust  Rose 
Alley  from  Mark's  mind. 

The  blacks,  ordered  by  telephone,  awaited  him. 
Swiftly,  Mark  holding  the  reins,  they  were  guided 
across  a  bridge,  along  rough-paved,  tumble-down 
streets,  into  a  quarter  such  as  their  aristocratic  feet 
had  never  trod.  Grime  and  decay  were  everywhere. 
The  fog,  mingling  with  the  sulphurous  clouds  from 
the  near-by  mills,  converted  afternoon  into  a  gray 
cheerless  twilight  that  the  saloon  lights  feebly 
essayed  to  dispel.  Through  the  fog  came  the  voice 
of  the  mills.  The  blacks'  driver,  senses  refined  and 


236    THE   AMBITION    OF   MARK   TRUITT 

sharpened  by  the  custom  of  another  sphere,  looked 
about  him  and  shivered. 

It  was  fifteen  years  since  he  had  seen  Rose  Alley, 
but  he  found  the  way  as  though  he  had  taken  it  but 
yesterday.  How  could  he  forget?  Rose  Alley  had 
been  his  first  crossroads,  where  had  been  first  re- 
vealed to  him  the  price  they  must  pay  who  would 
succeed.  Thence  he  had  taken  the  branch  road  that 
led  to  the  offices  of  important  lawyers,  into  the  pres- 
ence of  the  Henleys  and  the  Quinbys.  He  had 
thought  that  branch  the  highway. 

He  drew  up  at  the  mouth  of  a  narrow  shallow 
court,  and  giving  the  reins  to  his  man,  got  down 
from  the  trap. 

In  the  shadow  of  the  court  the  gloom  was  even 
more  oppressive.  The  pavement  was  damp  and  un- 
clean and  rang  hollowly  under  his  cane.  The  dingy 
brick  tenements,  once  red  but  now  almost  black, 
were  nearing  the  last  stages  of  dilapidation.  A 
strong  smell  of  garlic  and  fetid  refuse  blotted  out  all 
other  odors.  He  thought  it  even  worse  than  he  had 
remembered.  Doubtless  it  was,  since  Rose  Alley, 
which  needed  it  most,  had  had  no  favor  from  the 
passing  years. 

A  few  children — dirty,  sallow,  undersized — had 
been  playing  in  the  court.  With  difficulty,  for  they 
had  not  his  tongue  and  were  afraid  of  the  stranger, 
he  learned  from  them  in  which  tenement  Peter 
Anderson  lived. 

He  groped  and  stumbled  up  two  flights  of  stairs 


STUFF   OF    DREAMS  237 

that  groaned  protestingly  under  his  tread.  He  found 
a  door  and  knocked.    It  opened.    .    .    . 

For  a  full  minute,  speechless,  he  stared  at  the 
woman  who  stood  on  the  threshold. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

GLOWING    EMBERS 

"TTI7HAT  a  woman!"  he  thought.     "And  in 

VV  this  hole!" 

The  promise  of  her  girlhood  had  been  kept.  She 
was  tall  and  erectly  held.  The  figure  silhouetted  in 
the  doorway  was  one  to  make  men  dream,  full 
curved,  strong  with  the  strength  of  women  whose 
forbears  have  always  toiled,  yet  without  heaviness; 
it  was  the  strength  that  lies  in  quality,  not  in  bulk. 
Her  head  was  half  turned  toward  him.  He  saw  a 
mass  of  dusky  hair  rippling  loosely  away  from  a 
face  that,  white  and  sharply  chiseled,  would  have 
been  severe  but  for  the  long  lashes  and  full  red 
mouth. 

She  was  not  beautiful,  as  he  had  learned  to  define 
beauty.  But  she  had  no  need  of  it.  Vital  she  had 
been  as  a  girl.  In  her  full-blown  womanhood  that 
vitality  had  become  a  quality  to  surpass  mere  beauty  ; 
a  quality  that  spelled  power  over  men,  that  has  made 
of  unbeautiful  women  famous  courtesans,  great  se- 
cret influences  of  history.  Had  she  been  ugly  and 
clad  in  rags,  he  would  have  felt  it.  Jaded  senses 
quickened.  He  forgot  the  squalid  tenement,  the 
gloomy  passage.  At  the  same  time  a  nameless  un- 

238 


GLOWING    EMBERS  239 

wonted  reluctance  seized  upon  him,  as  though  he 
faced,  uncertain  of  the  outcome,  an  important  crisis. 

She  looked  at  him  steadily,  showing  no  surprise. 
And  by  that  he  read  that  she  had  learned  to  take 
life,  its  coincidences  and  its  climaxes  as  they  came, 
calmly,  without  loss  of  poise.  Only  to  those,  he 
knew,  who  had  pitted  themselves  against  the  prob- 
lems of  existence  and  not  failed  was  such  attitude 
possible.  She  had  not  failed;  to  perceive  this  he 
did  not  need  the  testimony  of  her  trim  modish  hat 
and  suit,  such  as  no  denizen  of  Rose  Alley  ever 
wore. 

She  spoke  first,  in  a  low  even  voice  that  hinted 
even  less  than  her  manner  at  inner  excitement.  "I 
thought  it  was  Piotr.  Your  step  sounds  like  his." 

They  might  have  been  daily  familiars. 

"Yes,"  he  flushed.    "I  am  somewhat  in  his  case." 

He  almost  missed  the  swift  glance  she  cast  to- 
ward his  cane.  But  he  was  grateful  that  she  had 
no  comment  for  his  injury.  In  the  presence  of  her 
splendid  perfections  his  own  physical  shortcoming 
seemed  almost  cause  for  shame. 

"How  do  you  do,  Kazia?"  he  said  gravely.  "I 
didn't  expect  to  find  you  here." 

He  held  out  an  uncertain  hand.  She  took  it, 
neither  hastily  nor  reluctantly,  for  a  brief  mean- 
ingless clasp. 

"I  am  here  sometimes.    Will  you  come  in?" 

She  stood  aside  and  he  entered,  trying  to  over- 
come his  limp.  It  was  the  kitchen,  which  in  Rose 
Alley — as  he  remembered — had  to  serve  as  living- 


240     THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK   TRUITT 

room  as  well.  It  was  clean,  but  bare;  pitifully  bare, 
he  thought,  calling  to  mind  the  plain  but  comfort- 
able abode  in  which  a  staggering  young  soldier  of 
fortune  had  found  refuge.  To  the  soldier  had  come 
fortune  and  with  it  the  philosophy  of  the  fortunate 
that  decrees  what  a  man  has,  to  be  the  measure  of 
his  worth.  But  here  that  philosophy  failed,  could 
not  silence  a  sudden  accusing  voice  that  cried, 
"Cruel,  unjust!" 

By  the  stove  stood  a  little  faded  woman,  much 
stooped,  her  hair  white  and  thin,  here  pale  lack- 
luster eyes  for  the  moment  brightened  by  a  startled 
question.  He  went  over  to  her  and  took  her  hand. 
She  shrank  away  from  him. 

"It  is  Mark  Truitt,  Matka"  said  Kazia  in  Polish. 
"Don't  you  remember?" 

Hanka  said  something  in  the  same  tongue. 

"She  says,"  Kazia  interpreted,  "they  have  never 
forgotten." 

Their  eyes  met  again.  .  .  .  His  turned  away 
quickly  and  went  to  the  other  occupant  of  the  room. 
He  sat  in  the  only  armchair,  a  huge  mass  pf  inert 
flesh,  head  slouched  forward  and  ringers  playing 
aimlessly  with  the  long  unkempt  beard  that  reached 
half-way  to  the  bulging  w^aist.  Mark  laid  a  hand 
on  his  shoulder.  Roman  looked  up.  But  Roman 
saw  as  the  new-born  babe  sees. 

The  grasp  on  his  shoulder  tightened.  "Roman, 
'don't  you  know  me?  I'm  Mark — Mark  Truitt, 
you  remember." 


GLOWING   EMBERS  241 

The  shoulder  stirred  a  little  under  the  tight  grasp. 
Roman's  head  slouched  forward  again  and  he  be- 
gan once  more  his  aimless  twisting  of  the  long 
beard. 

"How  long,"  Mark's  voice  had  become  sharp, 
"has  he  been  this  way?" 

"Almost  three  years." 

"And  here?" 

"A  year  longer." 

Kazia's  eyes  said,  "What  is  that  to  you?" 

A  heavy  silence  fell,  broken  only  by  the  confused 
clamor  of  the  mills.  It  was  a  painful  embarrassing 
silence  to  the  intruder,  who  found  a  strange  diffi- 
culty in  explaining  the  impulse  that  had  brought 
him.  He  himself  did  not  understand  that  impulse 
or  the  even  stranger  emotion  that  struggled  awk- 
wardly within  him  for  recognition,  stopping  speech. 

"Why,"  he  demanded,  "didn't  you  let  me  know 
about  it?" 

She  smiled — contemptuously,  as  it  seemed  to 
him. 

"We  must  get  them  out  of  here,"  he  went  on  has- 
tily. 

"We  can't.     Piotr  won't  let  us." 

"He  must,"  Mark  declared  curtly. 

"He  will  not,"  she  repeated. 

"I  saw  him  to-day.    He's  crazy." 

"He  is.  He's  a  good  compositor  and  could  make 
enough  to  keep  them  at  least  decently.  But  he  pre- 
fers to  work  for  the  Outcry — for  little  pr  nothing. 


242     THE   AMBITION    OF   MARK   TRUITT 

Generally  it's  nothing.     He  says  it's  for  the  cause." 

"But  that's  no  reason  why  he  shouldn't  let  me 
help  them." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "To  Piotr  it  is.  I 
know,  because  I've  tried." 

"Then,"  he  said,  "we'll  take  them  away  and  set- 
tle with  Piotr  afterward." 

He  said  it  crisply,  with  the  assured  air  of  for- 
tune's darlings  who,  having  made  their  resolve,  take 
its  consummation  for  granted.  Her  faint  smile 
showed  again. 

"It  isn't  so  simple  as  that.    They  won't  go." 

"They  won't  go!"  He  stared.   "Why  not?" 

"For  one  thing,"  she  returned  quietly,  "the 
Matka  loves  her  son.  I'll  ask  her." 

She  turned  to  Hanka  and  for  several  minutes  the 
two  women  talked  earnestly  in  their  native  tongue. 
Hanka  shook  her  head  continuously. 

"She  says,"  Kazia  returned  to  Mark,  "  'My  Piotr 
wouldn't  like  it.'  " 

Hanka  interrupted,  laying  a  hand  on  Kazia's  arm 
and  looking  anxiously  toward  the  door.  Kazia 
nodded. 

"She  says  also,"  she  interpreted  again,  "that  we'd 
better  go.  It's  most  time  for  Piotr  to  come  home. 
She's  right." 

"I  think,"  Mark  answered,  "I'll  stay,  since  I'm 
here,  and  have  this  out  with  Piotr." 

"You'd  better  not."  Her  swift  glance  seemed  to 
measure  his  physical  frailty.  "Piotr's  temper  is  un- 


GLOWING    EMBERS  243 

certain.  He  found  me  here  once  and  drove  me  out. 
It — "  The  gloom  could  not  quite  hide  the  color 
that  surged  into  her  cheeks.  "It  wasn't  nice." 

"Humph!  Our  Piotr  seems  to  have  developed 
into  a  lovely  -brute.  Why  should  he  drive  you  out?" 

"He's  bitter  and  he  thinks  he's  proud.  And  he 
hates  me.  Probably  you'd  find  he  hates  you,  too." 

"You  think  it  safe  to  assume  that?" 

"I  think,"  she  said  quietly,  "this  is  one  case  your 
rich  man's  charity  can't  reach." 

"But  it  isn't  charity,"  he  protested. 

"What  is  it?" 

"I'm  sorry  for  them  and — "  He  ceased  abrupt- 
ly, suddenly  uncomfortable  under  her  clear  level 
gaze,  and  not  yet  willing  to  formulate  even  to  him- 
self his  reason  for  this  adventure.  "I  suppose 
you're  right — a  charitable  whim.  But  just  the 
same,  since  I've  started,  I'll  see  this  through  and 
wait  for  Piotr." 

"No,  you'd  better  not,"  she  repeated  with  cold 
emphasis.  "You  can  prove  your  inflexibility  in 
some  other  way.  Piotr  is  apt  to  have  been  drinking 
and  if  his  temper  is  stirred  up,  he'll  make  them 
suffer."  She  nodded  toward  Hanka  and  Roman. 
"Really,  you're  quite  helpless  in  the  matter." 

"I  seem  to  be."  He  laughed  shortly,  to  conceal 
a  disappointment  as  undefined  as  the  emotion  set 
stirring  by  the  sight  of  his  old  friends.  "But,  at 
least,  I  can  leave  some  money." 

But  she  shut  him  off  from  this,  too.    "No.  What 


244    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

money  they  can  use  without  Piotr's  knowing  of  it, 
I  can  furnish." 

He  limped  stiffly  toward  the  door,  more  hurt 
than  he  was  willing  to  admit  to  himself  by  the  re- 
buff and  the  failure  of  his  impulsive  mission.  And 
indignant,  too,  at  himself,  that  he  had  descended 
from  his  high  sphere  to  lend  a  hand  that  was  not 
wanted.  Only  the  harsher  sentiments,  it  seemed, 
could  survive  the  years. 

But  at  the  door  he  looked  and  then  turned 
around,  held  by  a  tableau  that  caused  him — part- 
ner to  Jeremiah  Quinby! — to  know  a  strange 
twinge.  Kazia  was  saying  her  good-bys,  to  Ro- 
man with  a  kiss  on  his  forehead  and  a  little  affec- 
tionate pat  such  as  one  gives  a  child,  to  Hanka 
with  a  lingering  embrace.  The  cold  unemotional 
mask  of  successful  militant  womanhood  that  she 
had  presented  to  him  was  pulled  aside.  The  sad 
wistfulness  in  her  parting  did  not  escape  him. 
.  .  .  He  had  been  wrong.  It  was  only  with  him 
that  the  sweeter  sentiments  perished.  Even  Piotr 
could  win  a  loyalty  that  the  temptation  of  release 
from  almost  squalid  poverty  could  not  break  down. 

He  went  quickly  out  into  the  dark  passage,  that 
he  might  not  have  to  look  longer,  and  there  awaited 
her.  When  she  came,  he  led  the  way  down  the 
rickety  stairs  and  out  into  the  foul  smelling  court, 
lighted  up  now  by  a  swaying  arc  lamp. 

"One  would  think,"  he  blurted  out,  "you  wanted 
to  stay  there." 

"Do  you  find  that  so  wonderful?" 


GLOWING    EMBERS  245 

"I'm  glad  you  can't.  It's  no  place  for  such  as 
you." 

"Many  people  have  lived  here." 

"But  not  from  choice.  I  know.  I  lived  here 
once  myself,  before — "  He  hesitated  a  moment. 
"I  left  it  to  live  with  Roman." 

She  made  no  reply.  He  stopped,  facing  her  and 
blocking  her  egress. 

"You're  thinking  my  going  there  was  to  the  ad- 
vantage of  no  one  but  myself?" 

"Why  else  should  you  have  gone  there  ?" 

She  was  standing  in  the  doorway  of  the  tene- 
ment, he  on  the  pavement  below  her.  The  dark 
dismal  court  and  the  cold  bluish  light  from  the  arc 
lamp  did  but  emphasize  the  warm  brightness  she 
radiated.  Frank  wondering  admiration  was  in  his 
glance. 

"That's  almost  cynical,  isn't  it?  I  might  have 
had  several  other  reasons — but  didn't.  At  least  I 
did  you  no  harm." 

"Neither  harm  nor  good." 

"One  doesn't  like  to  think  of  one's  self  as  reduced 
to  even  a  harmless  nonentity.  Still,  most  of  the  vir- 
tues are  negative,  I  believe.  Though  I'm  vain 
enough  to  wish  I  could  have  been  a  positive  influ- 
ence in  the  making  of  the  woman  you've  become. 
It's  rather  remarkable,  Kazia." 

"It  isn't  remarkable — or  excuse  for  vanity." 

She  had  not  winced,  nor  had  her  steady  gaze 
wandered.  But  for  just  an  instant  a  fleeting  som- 
ber shadow  had  rested  in  her  eyes. 


246     THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

"I  must  go,"  she  said. 

They  walked  in  silence  to  the  mouth  of  the  court. 
At  their  approach  Mark's  man  got  down  from  the 
trap,  touching  his  hat. 

"Can't  I  set  you  home?"  Mark  ventured,  not  at 
all  sure  that  she  would  accept.  But  she  affected  no 
reluctance. 

She  glanced  at  a  little  watch  she  wore.  "I  go  to 
the  Todd  Hospital,  and  I've  overstayed  here  a  lit- 
tle. Will  you  save  me  time?" 

"Will  I  save  you  time !"  Mark  affected  a  jocose- 
ness  he  did  not  feel.  "Felix,  what  have  you  to  say?" 

"Whist,  mum !"  Felix  grinned.  "Ye'll  be  hurtin' 
the  feelin's  av  th'  fastest  team  in  th'  city." 

Kazia's  smile  was  all  for  Felix.  "They  are  splen- 
did. I'll  have  to  ride,  if  only  to  show  I  meant  no 
unkindness." 

"Good !"  said  Mark  briskly.  "Felix,  you  may  take 
the  car." 

He  helped  her  up  to  the  seat.  When  Felix,  as 
usual,  would  have  lifted  him,  Mark  covertly  waved 
the  man  aside,  though  the  high  awkward  step 
caused  his  lame  hip  to  pain  him  sharply.  The 
horses  sprang  forward,  swung  into  the  car  tracks 
and  quickly  left  the  tenement  neighborhood  behind. 
For  a  time  Mark  gave  his  attention  to  guiding  their 
swift  course  around  overtaken  cars  and  the  slow 
lumbering  teams  that  drew  the  heavy  traffic  of  the 
street.  They  were  on  the  bridge  before  either  spoke. 

"You  said,  to  the  hospital,"  he  began  sugges- 
tively. "Do  you—" 


GLOWING    EMBERS  247 

"I'm  on  a  case  there." 

"You're  a  nurse,  then?  I  remember  you  had  a 
knack  for  that  sort  of  thing.  Your  husband — er — • 
I  hadn't  heard—" 

"I  haven't  seen  him  for  twelve  years." 

He  looked  at  her  quickly,  but  her  face  was  turned 
away.  He  had  detected  no  change  in  the  low  even 
voice.  But  he  knew  instinctively  that  behind  the 
fact  so  simply  announced  lay  a  story  worth  the 
hearing.  And  not  a  happy  story — he  sensed  that, 
too.  For  her  composure  was  not  the  assurance  of 
those  whose  lives  have  been  placid  and  easy,  but 
the  certainty  that  comes  only  to  those  who  have 
passed — not  always  unscathed,  but  have  somehow 
lived — through  ordeal  and  strife.  It  was  akin 
to  the  impassive  front  he  had  learned  to  present 
to  the  world. 

"Of  course,  it  isn't  happy,"  he  thought.  "For 
it's  a  story  of  success.  And  there  is  always  the 
price." 

"Kazia,"  he  asked  gravely,  "will  you  tell  me 
about  yourself?" 

"There  is  nothing  to  tell — any  more  than  there 
is  about  you." 

"That  is,  you're  not  interested  in  what  has  hap- 
pened to  me.  You're  frank." 

"Because  a  chance  has  thrown  us  together  for  an 
hour  is  no  reason  for  us  to  pretend  an  interest  nei- 
ther of  us  can  feel." 

"You  may  speak  for  yourself,  please.  At  least, 
we  can  oil  the  wheels  of  circumstance  by,  going 


248    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

through  the  polite  forms.  You  could  smile  very 
graciously  on  my  man  Felix,  but  to  me — "  He 
broke  off  with  a  short  laugh.  "History  has  a  way 
of  repeating  itself.  I  remember  saying  something 
of  the  sort  to  you  once  before.  Of  course,  you've 
forgotten." 

"I  forget— nothing." 

"Ah !"  He  turned  quickly  to  her  again.  "Then 
I  did  do  you  harm." 

"I  can't  see—" 

"It  follows,"  he  interrupted.  "If  I  had  done  you 
no  harm,  you  would  remember  charitably,  not  cold- 
ly or  worse,  and  you  would  be  at  least  as  cordial  to 
me  as  to  my  groom." 

"Now  it  is  you,"  she  answered  after  a  thought- 
ful pause,  "who  will  not  let  me  oil  the  wheels. 
Probably  what  you  say  is  right.  I  haven't  thought 
much  about  influences — I  haven't  had  time." 

"I'm  sorry.  Which  seems  all  I  can  do  about  it. 
You  and  Piotr  and  Hanka  seem  in  a  conspiracy  to 
teach  me  that  for  regrettable  things  we  can  pay  only 
with  regret.  But  I  promised  to  save  you  time." 

He  leaned  forward  and  drew  the  reins  taut.  He 
touched  the  horses  lightly  with  the  whip.  The 
pounding  of  hoofs  on  the  smooth  asphalt  quickened. 
They  flew  along  at  a  pace  that  forbade  conversa- 
tion, even  had  they  been  so  minded.  Neither  was 
so  minded. 

Darkness  had  fallen  when  they  drew  up  before 
the  hospital.  Mark  descended  painfully  to  help  her 
down — a  rather  superfluous  courtesy,  since  she  was 


GLOWING    EMBERS  249 

better  able  to  alight  alone  than  was  he.  "You're  in 
good  time,  I  hope  ?" 

"Oh,  yes.    Thank  you  for  the  ride." 

They  exchanged  a  conventional  hand  clasp.  She 
moved  toward  the  steps  leading  to  the  hospital  door. 
He  -began  to  climb  back  into  the  trap. 

But  the  restive  horses  started  too  soon,  while  he 
was  balanced  on  the  little  mounting  step.  His  foot 
was  dislodged.  He  would  have  fallen,  perhaps  been 
dragged,  had  Kazia  not  sprung  forward,  and  catch- 
ing the  reins,  brought  the  horses  sharply  to  a  stop. 

"You  are  hurt?" 

"No,"  he  lied  through  set  teeth,  as  he  pulled  him- 
self up  to  the  seat.  His  hip,  in  fact,  had  received 
an  excruciating  wrench.  "I'm  a  little  awkward. 
This  is  one  of  the  things  I  can't  get  quite  used  to." 

"I  supposed  it  was  only  temporary." 

He  shook  his  head  briefly,  as  though  the  topic 
were  distasteful. 

"Another — you  probably  won't  believe  this — 
is  an  existence  that  continually  requires  little  cruel- 
ties of  one.  Big  ones,  too,  sometimes." 

"You  say — requires?" 

"At  least,  encourages.  But  I,"  he  smiled  un- 
pleasantly, "am  subject  to  regrets.  And  equally 
unprofitable  impulses.  Of  course,"  with  obvious 
irony,  "this  is  very  interesting  to  you." 

She  was  standing  between  two  balustrade  lamps. 
In  their  bright  glow  he  saw  her  cool  impersonal  re- 
gard change,  become  questioning.  And  the  dark 
shadow  again — as  though  she  had  seen  and  known 


250    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

to  the  full  the  cruelties  whereof  he  spoke.  Her  lips 
parted.  But  no  words  fell.  With  an  odd  lit- 
tle gesture  of  repression  she  turned  and  slowly 
mounted  the  stairs.  At  the  top  she  paused  for  an 
instant. 

"Good  night,"  she  repeated.  "And  thank  you 
again." 

He  dined  alone  at  his  club  that  night.  The  events 
of  the  day  had  left  him  depressed  and  strangely 
restless  and  with  a  strong  distaste  for  companion- 
ship. To  escape  an  approaching  group  of  loungers, 
he  rose  hastily,  leaving  his  cigar  half  finished,  and 
went  home. 

The  drawing-room  was  brightly  lighted  and 
from  within  came  to  him  a  medley  of  gay  voices; 
Unity  had  surrounded  herself  with  her  kind.  He 
entered  quietly  by  a  side  door  and,  undetected,  stole 
up-stairs  to  his  own  room.  He  felt  no  guilt  in  thus 
shirking  the  role  of  host;  Unity's  guests,  he  knew, 
happy  in  their  chit-chat,  their  cards  and  their  flir- 
tations, would  be  glad  to  be  spared  the  presence  of 
one  with  whom  they  had  nothing  in  common. 

Hours  later  a  burst  of  laughter  from  departing 
guests  aroused  him  from  his  long  reverie.  He 
looked  at  the  clock — it  was  past  midnight. 

"And  I  thought  I  had  forgotten  how  to  dream. 
But  what  a  woman !  What  a  woman  to  have  made 
the  fight  with!  She  would  care — and  not  for  the 
loot.  ...  I'd  better  quit  thinking  of  her." 

He  could  not  know  that  at  the  same  hour  the 
woman  was  sitting  at  her  hospital  window,  looking 


GLOWING   EMBERS  251 

out  into  the  murky  night  and  seeing  a  procession 
of  memories  stalk  forth  from  the  tomb.  There  was 
no  lack  of  chanty  now.  There  had  been  no  lack. 
Her  cool  composure  had  been  but  a  mask  for  an 
inward  tremor  such  as  she  had  believed  she  could 
not  know  again.  The  man  who  had  filched  her 
girlish  heart  only  to  give  it  back  had  returned  into 
her  life,  and  he,  too,  was  a  promise  fulfilled.  His 
very  frailty  and  disability,  while  forbidding  harsh 
judgments,  threw  a  halo  around  him  for  her.  The 
spirit  and  courage  that  had  withstood  trials  before 
which  stronger  succumbed  had  not  faltered  until  a 
seat  among  the  masters  had  been  won. 

Other  memories,  too,  in  which  he  had  had  no 
part  and  for  which  time  had  seemed  to  be  finding 
an  anodyne,  revived  and  burned.  There  was  no 
one  to  see.  The  will  that  had  sternly  repressed 
such  futilities  as  regrets  relaxed.  The  guise  of  self- 
reliance  that  had  so  impressed  the  successful  man 
slipped  away.  The  somber  shadow — of  hopeless 
penitence — fell  upon  her. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

FANNED   INTO    FLAME 

"T  'D  BETTER  quit  thinking  of  her,"  Mark  had 

JL    said. 

A  virtuous  and  a  wise  resolution,  forsooth !  And 
one  strangely  hard  to  keep.  The  thought — of  a 
woman  of  the  people,  dwelling  in  a  fine  strong 
body  whose  splendid  perfection  the  toil  of  the 
people  could  not  diminish,  whose  flame  could  not 
quench — never  withdrew  entirely,  at  most  retired 
into  ambush  whence  to  spring  out  upon  him  at  un- 
guarded moments,  with  ever  increasing  potency  to 
stir  his  jaded  imagination.  He  could  not  honestly 
have  claimed  a  vigorous  resistance  to  its  assaults 
upon  his  interest.  There  was  a  peculiar  luxurious 
pleasure,  such  as  he  had  not  known  since  budding 
youth,  in  turning  aside  ffom  the  hard,  serious,  dis- 
appointing routine  to  contemplate  the  breathlessly 
romantic  possibilities  the  thought  of  her  evoked, 
to  try  to  solve  the  mystery  of  her  reappearance  in 
a  plane,  not  exalted  surely,  but  vastly  superior  to 
that  in  which  he  remembered  her,  to  ponder  what 
temper  of  woman  lay  beneath  her  composed  ex- 
terior, to  speculate  upon  the  men  she  must  have  at- 
tracted. It  was  at  this  point  that  he  generally  broke 

252 


FANNED    INTO    FLAME  253 

off,  contemptuously  indicting  himself  as  an  arrant 
fool. 

"What  have  I  to  do  with  women  ?"  he  would  de- 
mand of  himself.  "Or  women  with  me?  Me,  a 
broken-down  cripple !"  A  pertinent  reflection  which, 
however,  did  not  make  for  content. 

He  had  much  time  and  equal  need  for  the  dis- 
traction of  such  thoughts.  Attainment  of  the  part- 
nership had  indeed  proved  to  be  the  climax  of  his 
career  with  the  Quinby  company.  Followed  quickly 
the  long  imminent  collapse.  There  was  no  specific 
ailment,  save  a  heavy  stubborn  cough  and  the  con- 
stant ache  in  his  injured  hip,  which  were  really 
symptoms.  It  was  rather  a  general  failure  of  his 
powers.  He  was  no  longer  able  to  whip  flagging 
energies  to  the  day's  tasks.  The  cool,  clear,  inci- 
sive brain  that  could  grasp  a  multitude  of  details 
and  yet  not  lose  sight  of  result  and  purpose  had 
become  cloudy,  vacillating  and  wandering,  a  poor 
tool  for  the  direction  of  a  huge,  intricately  organ- 
ized plant  operating  under  tremendous  pressure. 
He  was  subject  to  attacks  of  profound  melancholy. 
He  could  not  sleep  without  the  aid  of  drugs.  Worst 
of  all,  the  will  to  endure,  to  mock  pain  and  weak- 
ness, had  broken. 

"What's  the  matter  with  me?"  he  demanded  of 
his  physician. 

"Burnt  out,"  was  the  succinct  reply. 

"What  can  I  do?" 

"Nothing.     And  quit  taking  drugs." 

"But,"  habit  protested,  "I  can't  do  nothing." 


254    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

"It's  your  life,"  interrupted  the  doctor.  "But 
you've  consulted  me  and  I  propose  to  earn  the  stiff 
fee  I'll  charge  you.  Drop  everything,  go  to  trie 
country  or  to  the  end  of  the  earth — personally,  I'd 
advise  the  end  of  the  earth,  because  it's  farthest 
away  and  newest  to  you.  Forget  work,  play  a 
while." 

Mark  shook  his  head  gloomily.  "I've  forgotten 
how  to  play.  I've  been  working  too  long." 

"Well,  you've  got  to  learn  to  play  over  again. 
You'll  find  there  are  a  good  many  important  and 
interesting  things  you've  forgotten  or  overlooked 
while  you've  been  trying  to  make  a  cheap  hero  out 
of  yourself." 

"We'll  assume  that.  How  long  must  I  play — as 
you  call  it?" 

"For  months,  maybe  for  years,  maybe  always. 
How  can  I  tell  what  damage  has  been  done  until 
you  try  the  cure?" 

"A  loafer  for  months,  maybe  for  years,  maybe 
the  rest  of  my  life!  Pleasant  outlook!" 

"You  complain?"  The  doctor  was  a  vigorous 
gentleman  who  had  no  fear  of  his  patients.  "You 
ought  to  be  down  on  your  marrow-bones  thanking 
God  you're  a  rich  man  and  can  afford  the  cure.  I 
see  hundreds  of  poor  men  in  your  state,  and  they 
have  to  plug  along  until  the  last  ember  is  dead." 

Mark  asked  and  received  from  the  directors  a 
six  months'  vacation.  But,  although  he  formulated 
no  reason,  he  did  not  at  once  leave  the  city.  When 
the  weather  permitted  he  filled  in  the  hours  by 


FANNED    INTO    FLAME  255 

! 

driving  through  the  parks.  They  were  long  tedious 
hours;  as  drearily  empty  as  he  had  forecasted.  The 
nights,  when  he  lay  sleepless,  fighting  an  incipient 
craving,  were  longer  and  drearier.  Thus  it  was 
that  he  had  leisure  to  think  of  Kazia  Whiting, 
though  at  some  loss  to  explain  why  the  reappear- 
ance of  one  whom  in  his  receded  youth  he  had 
treated  badly  should  command  so  much  of  his  in- 
terest 

Nor  did  he  admit  a  design  when  his  drives  took 
him  almost  daily  past  the  Todd  Hospital.  Never- 
theless the  sight  of  that  institution  was  enough  to 
evoke  a  faint  thrill  of  excitement  not  to  be  laid  to 
its  barrack-like  architecture,  followed  by  a  more 
emphatic  disappointment  as  the  neighborhood  was 
left  behind.  One  afternoon  Kazia,  in  company 
with  another  young  woman,  emerged  from  the 
grounds  as  he  was  passing  and  gave  him  a  cool  im- 
personal nod.  He  guessed  that  it  was  her  recrea- 
'tion  hour  and  marked  the  time.  The  quick  leaping 
interest  should  have  been  a  warning  to  him.  Per- 
haps it  was,  for : 

"I'm  making  a  fool  of  myself,"  he  growled. 
"What  do  I  know  of  this  woman?" 

On  the  third  day  thereafter,  at  the  same  hour,  he 
passed  the  hospital.  This  time  Kazia.  appeared 
alone.  She  gave  him  again  the  cool  impersonat 
nod  and  would  have  passed  on.  But  he  drew  tfw 
horses  up  sharply  and  called :  "Kazia !" 

She  paused,  hesitated  a  moment,  then  went  over 
to  the  curb.  Both  somber  shadow  and  chill  indif- 


256    THE   AMBITION   OF   ^ARK  TRUITT 

ference,  he  observed  with  delight,  were  absent  from 
her  face,  replaced  by  a  light  he  did  not  have  time 
to  analyze  but  supposed  might  be  secret  mirth;  he 
wondered  if  she,  too,  found  something  ridiculous 
in  this  attempt  to  renew  an  old  acquaintance.  But 
the  light,  whatever  it  was,  vanished  as  she  scanned 
his  haggard  face. 

"Will  you  drive  with  me  for  a  while  ?" 

"I  ought  to  walk,"  she  answered. 

"Please,  Kazia."  It  did  not  seem  absurd  to  him 
that  he  pleaded. 

She  hesitated  again,  then — 

"Yes,"  she  said. 

He  would  have  alighted  to  help  her  to  the  seat, 
but  she  forestalled  him. 

"Don't  get  out."     And  she  was  beside  him. 

He  touched  the  horses  with  his  whip  and  they 
sprang  forward. 

"You  aren't  well,"  she  said  abruptly. 

And  he,  ascribing  to  that  fact  her  unexpected 
compliance,  was  at  the  moment  almost  glad  of  his 
disability. 

"Is  it  obvious?  I  believe  I'm  not.  In  fact,  my 
doctor  has  ordered  me  to  get  out  and  play — I  find 
it  very  hard  work.  That's  why — that's  one  reason 
why — I  asked  you.  I  needed  company.  The  cir- 
cumstance," he  smiled,  "ought  to  appeal  to  you 
professionally." 

"Nurses  are  notoriously  hard-hearted." 

"Yes?  Then  I  can't  work  on  your  sympathies. 
On  the  whole,  I'd  rather  have  it  so.  You'll  have 


FANNED    INTO    FLAME  257 

to  admit  it  took  courage  to  ask  you  to  play  with 
me,  because — you'll  admit  again — you  weren't  ex- 
actly cordial  the  last  time." 

"What  did  you  expect?" 

"But  I  expected  nothing,"  he  retorted.  "I  didn't 
know  you  would  be  at  Roman's.  Why,  I  hadn't 
even  heard  of  you  for — I've  been  counting  it  up — 
fourteen  years.  That  isn't  gross  flattery,  is  it? 
But,  of  course,  you  aren't  the  sort  of  woman  that 
likes  flattery.  Are  you  ?" 

"Then  you're  not  so  sure,  after  all?  But  I  do 
like  it." 

"Not  really?" 

"Really — and  naturally.  I  even  sometimes  be- 
lieve it.  When  discreetly  tendered,  of  course." 

"I  must  remember  that."  He  chuckled.  "Play- 
ing becomes  distinctly  easier.  Isn't  it  lucky  I  hap- 
pened along  by  the  hospital  just  when  I  did?" 

"But  I  thought—"  She  almost  smiled.  "I 
thought  it  was  a  habit." 

"So  you've  seen  me?  Now  you  mention  it,  I 
may  as  well  confess  that  this  isn't  luck,  but  the  re- 
sult of  a  very  clever  plot.  I've  been  driving  past 
the  hospital  almost  every  day  in  the  sneaking  hope 
that  just  this  would  occur." 

"You  say,  a  sneaking  hope — ?" 

"You  see,"  he  'confided,  "I'm  easily  frightened. 
How  could  I  know  that  I'd  find  you  so — so  beau- 
tifully human? — Are  you  preparing  to  snub  me  for 
that?" 

"I  am  considering  it."    The  smile  was  Unmistak- 


258    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

able  now.  "But  I  won't,  because  to-day  is  one  of 
the  days  when  I  can't  help  being  beautifully  human. 
I'm  so  healthy  that  sometimes  I  just  have  to  take  a 
vacation  from  myself." 

.  "And  I'm  so  unhealthy  that,  though  I'd  like  to, 
I  can't  give  Truitt  the  slip  for  even  an  hour.  He's 
a  persistent  beggar — as  you  may  have  noticed  the 
last  few  weeks." 

They  laughed. 

They  had  reached  the  park.  He  drew  the  horses 
down  to  a  gentle  trot,  with  now  and  again  a  brisk 
dash  when  an  occasional  landau  or  old-fashioned 
barouche  drawn  by  sober  plodding  teams  threatened 
his  sense  of  being  alone  with  her.  They  talked  a 
great  deal,  always  in  gay  strain,  in  conscious  effort 
to  be  gay.  It  was  not  very  clever  talk — it  was  even 
awkward;  theirs  had  not  been  the  sunny  inconse- 
quent life  that  makes  for  nimble  wits  and  tongues. 
But  neither  was  a  critical  audience. 

Under  cover  of  their  badinage  he  was  trying  to 
explain  the  strange  fact  that  the  chilling  self-reliant 
woman,  in  her  second  reappearance,  had  become 
softly  feminine,  winsome,  even  intimate.  There 
might  have  been  no  cloud  over  their  past.  Equally 
strange  but  not  open  to  question  was  his  pleasure 
in  the  fact 

It  was  a  clear  afternoon,  beautiful  with  the  mel- 
low radiance  of  autumn  sunshine.  But  the  wind 
that  swept  sky  and  air  clean  was  crisp  and  pene- 
trating. To  her,  superbly  healthy,  it  gave  only  a 
rare  tinge  of  color  that  enhanced  her  charm,  gave 


FANNED    INTO    FLAME  259 

the  last  needed  softening  touch.  His  wasted  body, 
despite  the  heavy  overcoat  he  wore,  could  not  re- 
sist the  chill  breath.  But,  though  he  knew  he  would 
probably  pay  later  for  the  exposure,  he  would  not 
by  so  much  as  a  minute  curtail  the  hour. 

"I  haven't  had  so  pleasant — it's  a  puny  word, 
but  let  that  go^so  pleasant  a  time  in  years,"  he 
declared. 

"I  see,"  she  laughed,  "you  have  taken  me  at  my 
word." 

"But  I  mean  it,"  he  protested.  "I'd  like  you  to 
•believe  that  I  mean  it." 

He  became  grave. 

"Since  that  day  at  Roman's  I've  been  thinking  a 
good  deal  of  what  we  said — about  my  having 
harmed  you.  If  regrets — but  there's  nothing  so 
useless.  That  sort  of  thing  isn't  easily  forgiven, 
is  it?" 

"Oh,  very  easily." 

"You  are  thinking  that  I  give  too  much  signifi- 
cance to  our  little  affair.  I  do  not — " 

"No,  I  mean  I  have  never  blamed  you.  Of 
course,  we  were  too  young  for  it  to  have  any  lasting 
significance.  And,  if  I  remember  aright,  I  invited 
it — and  so  put  you  in  what  must  have  seemed  a 
very  tragic  quandary  at  the  time."  The  most  crit- 
ical ear  could  have  discerned  nothing  ungenuine  in 
her  rippling  laugh. 

"It  did,"  he  answered.  "But  you  didn't  invite 
it.  You  weren't  the  sort  of  girl  that  needed  to  in- 
vite it — you  aren't  that  .sort  of  woman  now!"  Eyes, 


260    THE   AMBITION   OF    MARK   TRUITT 

no  less  than  tongue,  were  eloquent  of  his  admira- 
tion ;  but  she  was  looking  away.  "But  most  women 
wouldn't  be  so  ready  to  forgive.  They  would  re- 
member only  hurt  vanity.  I'm  at  your  feet  for 
your  charity.  I've  seen  little  of  it  in  my  life." 

"Have  you  looked  for  it?" 

"No.    Nor  had  it.    Nor  valued  it — until  now." 

"And  now?" 

"Why  now  I — need  it." 

Somehow  the  confession,  an  unconsidered  re- 
mark that,  however,  had  the  ring  of  sincerity  im- 
pulsive sayings  are  apt  to  have,  seemed  to  establish 
even  more  firmly  their  intimacy.  It  nerved  him 
to  his  next  remark. 

"Kazia,  don't  you  think  you  could  tell  me  what 
has  happened  to  you  during  all  these  years  ?" 

"It  wouldn't  be  interesting." 

"But  it  would,"  he  insisted.  "In  the  first  place, 
it  is  your  story.  Which  is  enough.  In  the  second, 
I  left  you  an  ignorant — no,  not  that  either — an  un- 
schooled little  Hunky  girl.  Now  I  find  you  a  fine 
cultured  woman,  with  an  air — do  you  know  it? — • 
that  not  many  women  I  know  have,  capable,  I'm 
sure,  since  you  always  were  that,  and  evidently 
educated.  That  makes  it  the  story  of  success,  which 
is  always  interesting." 

"You  draw  on  your  ,'imagination,  I'm  afraid. 
You  would  hardly  look  for  success  in  a  nurse." 

"But  that's  exactly  where  I  am  looking  for  it." 
He  assumed  a  commanding  air.  "On  with  the 
tale!" 


FANNED    INTO    FLAME  261 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  was  silent.  A 
quarter  of  a  mile  spun  by. 

"You'll  be  disappointed,"  she  began  abruptly, 
"because  there  isn't  much  and  it's  commonplace 
enough.  I  married  Jim  and  lived  with  him  a  year. 
Then  I  left  him.  Not  because  he  wasn't  kind — he 
was,  in  his  rough  way.  But  he  was  shiftless  and 
he  drank  too  much.  He  had  no  ambition  and — I 
wasn't  happy  with  him,  so  I  left  him,  though  I  knew 
it  hurt  him." 

"A  woman  can  do  that,"  he  interrupted  quickly. 

"Some  women  do  it,  you  mean.  I've  always  been 
ashamed,  though  I  never  went  back  to  him.  Later, 
I  got  a  divorce.  I  went  to  live  with  Uncle  Roman, 
but  Piotr,  who  had  hated  Jim,  made  it  so  unpleas- 
ant I  had  to  leave.  He  hated  me,  too,  I  think." 

"Or  loved  you,  in  Piotr' s  peculiar  fashion.  But 
go  on." 

"After  a  while  I  found  work  in  a  tobacco  fac- 
tory, rolling  cigars.  Not  the  kind  you  smoke,  but 
cheap  vile  things.  It — it  wasn't  nice." 

"I've  heard  of  those  holes,"  he  muttered.  "You 
there — why — " 

"I  was  one  of  many,"  she  went  on.  "In  two 
years  I  was  sick  and  in  the  hospital,  a  heavenly 
place  where  there  was  ventilation  and  nothing  to 
do  and  good  things  to  eat.  I  used  to  pray  I'd  never 
get  well."  She  paused,  staring  fixedly  ahead,  in- 
effable sadness  in  her  eyes.  He  thought  she  was 
seeing  again  in  memory  the  horror  of  the  filthy 
disease-breeding  shop. 


262    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK   TRUITT 

"There  isn't  much  more.  I  didn't  have  to  leave 
the  hospital.  One  of  the  internes  took  an  interest 
He  had  influence  and  helped  me  to  register  as  a 
nurse.  I've  a  knack  for  surgical  work,  and  since  I 
passed  my  examination,  I've  always  had  cases.  For 
the  rest,  I'm  not  educated.  I've  merely  read  a  lit- 
tle, here  and  there,  as  I've  had  time. 

"That's  all  and  not  what  you  seemed  to  expect. 
Just  cruel  selfishness  in  the  beginning  and  a  little 
luck  afterward.  Which  is  not  the  success  you 
worship." 

"But  I  see  more  than  that.  I  read  between  the 
lines."  Long  afterward,  recalling  this  scene,  he  re- 
membered her  quick  questioning  glance,  but  then  he 
gave  it  no  thought.  "I  see  the  courage  to  make  a 
fight,  the  will  to  rise  and  being  equal  to  the  oppor- 
tunity when  it  came.  And  I've  heard  that  the  really 
charitable  are  never  so  to  themselves." 

"Oh,  if  you  will — "  She  broke  off  with  a  shrug. 
"Let  us  talk  of  something  else." 

"But  I  think,"  he  insisted,  "you  make  too  much 
of  leaving  your  husband.  Surely  a  woman  has  the 
right  to  look  out  for  her  own  happiness  and — " 

"It  isn't  that,"  she  interrupted.  "It—"  She 
broke  off  again.  The  pretty  color  had  left  her 
face  and  her  hands  were  folded  tightly  in  her  lap. 
"It's  the  time  in  the  factory.  I  can't  forget  it.  It 
was  horrible.  Often  it  killed.  It  made  the  girls 
willing  to  pay  any  price  to  escape.  Sometimes  I 
can't  seem  to  realize  it's  ended  for  me." 

"Ah!    I  can  understand  that.     Often   I   have 


FANNED    INTO    FLAME  263 

awakened  in  the  night,  all  in  a  tremble  because 
I've  dreamed  I  was  back  in  the  mills.  I've  been 
afraid  to  go  to  sleep  again.  But  that  is  the  price 
of  success." 

"Ah!  Your,  success — always  success!"  She 
turned  on  him  almost  fiercely.  "But  that  isn't  the 
price.  It's  the  glory,  because  to  endure  is  to  be 
strong.  The  price — it's  what  we  do  and  become  to 
escape.  It's  the  hardening,  the  concessions,  the  loss 
pf  sympathy  and  gentleness,  of  the  things  that  make 
a  woman — I'm  not  fine,  as  you  said.  No  woman  is 
who  has  had  to  fight  for  a  living — alone." 

They  were  silent  for  many  minutes.  He  was 
trying  to  picture  the  horror  that  must  have  eaten 
into  this  woman's  soul,  since  the  memory  of  it  after 
years  could  evoke  her  passionate  cry.  It  hurt  him 
to  look  on  that  picture. 

He  saw  now — or  rather  felt — that  she  was  right, 
that  there  was  a  lack.  She  was  not  like  the  pro- 
tected women  he  knew.  For  the  stronger  quali- 
ties, the  capacity  to  achieve,  the  freedom  to  cry  out 
what  she  felt,  as  for  the  right  to  live,  she  had  paid 
as  she  had  said,  in  the  little  graces  of  manner  and 
speech,  in  the  feminine  soft  pliancy  and  conceal- 
ments. That,  too,  hurt  him — hurt  strangely.  A 
sad  tenderness  for  her  welled  up  within  him.  He 
wished  he  could  restore  to  her  the  woman's  estate ; 
or  give  it  originally,  for  she  had  never  really  had  it. 

Something  else  he  saw.  Her  quick  acceptance  of 
his  invitation,  the  unexpected  breach  of  her  indif- 
ference, were  not  the  result  of  a  passing  whim. 


264    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK   TRUITT 

The  chance  meeting  at  Roman's  must  have  meant 
something  to  her.  During  the  intervening  weeks 
she,  too,  must  have  been  thinking  and  wondering. 
Not  to  a  stranger  or  to  a  one-time  lover  who  had 
been  given  a  stranger's  place  outside  her  heart  could 
she  have  uttered  the  cry  still  quivering  in  his  ears. 
That  could  mean  only  that  with  her  one  spark  of 
their  hot  youthful  passion  had  not  died,  but  had  lain 
smoldering,  unquenchable  by  time  or  wrong  or  suf- 
fering, perhaps  needing  but  a  breath  to  burst  into 
flame.  And  with  him! 

The  thought  shook  him,  then  filled  him  with  a 
riotous  reckless  joy.  .  .  .  He  remembered  that 
once  he  had  thought  of  Kazia,  the  girl,  as  having  a 
genius  for  loving.  Her  physical  promise  had  been 
fulfilled.  Could  he  believe  that  genius  had  shriv- 
eled ?  What  mattered  her  lacks !  It  was  not  among 
the  soft  protected  women  one  sought  or  found  the 
great  whole  passions. 

"Steady!"  he  cried  warningly  to  himself.  "Am  I 
a  hot-blooded  boy  of  twenty  or  a  man  whose  cup  is 
empty  ?" 

But  when  at  length  he  broke  the  silence,  his  voice 
was  a  caress.  "I  wouldn't  have  you  different. 
What  you've  lost  is  nothing  compared  with  what 
you've  gained." 

She  turned  her  head  slowly  toward  him.  For 
a  long  minute  their  eyes  held.  Then  with  one  ac- 
cord they  looked  away.  Not  the  heart  of  a  boy  of 
twenty  could  have  beaten  more  violently.  Silence 
fell  upon  them  once  more. 


FANNED    INTO    FLAME  265 

As  they  drove  on,  the  silence  became  awkward, 
self-conscious.  Neither  seemed  able  to  break  it. 

Rounding  a  curve  in  the  tortuous  driveway,  they 
met  a  landau,  a  beautifully  enameled  affair  drawn 
by  high-stepping  horses  in  elaborate  silver-mounted 
harness.  In  it  sat  two  women.  They  bowed  to 
him,  the  younger  with  a  pointed  smile. 

Kazia  heard  him  mutter,  "I  had  forgotten!" 
With  a  quick  angry  movement  he  brought  his 
whip  down  on  the  horses'  flanks.     The  sensitive 
animals,  unused  to  such  treatment,  dashed  madly 
forward.    When  he. had  them  under  control  again, 
she  turned  to  him. 
"Who  was  she?" 

'The  older?     That  was  Mrs.  Thomas  Henley, 
of  whom  you  may  have  heard." 
"Yes  ?    But  I  meant  the  other." 
"That,"  he  answered  in  a  dry  constrained  voice, 
"was  Mrs.  Mark  Truitt." 

After  a  little,   "Ah!"  she  breathed.     "She  is 
lovely." 

"That  makes  it  unanimous,"  he  said  shortly. 
It  had  ceased  to  be  the  pleasantest  time  he  had 
had  in  years.  A  heavy  cold  cloud  had  settled  upon 
their  intimacy.  Why  dream  of  the  possibility  pf 
a  mighty  primitive  passion!  It  was  not  possible. 
It  was  but  of  a  piece  with  the  incompleteness  of  all 
his  achievements  and  desires.  The  splendid  vital 
woman,  between  whom  and  him  lay  an  inflaming 
memory,  whose  presence  could  now,  as  in  his  youth, 
weave  a  spell  about  him,  was  out  of  his  reach. 


266    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

.  .  .  But  it  was  a  characteristic  of  the  man  to 
want  most  the  things  farthest  away,  the  things  for- 
bidden. 

"We've  gone  far  enough,"  she  said.  True  words, 
however  she  meant  them!  "And  it  is  getting  too 
cold  for  you.  Let  us  turn  back." 

He  made  no  protest. 

He  swung  the  team  around  and  drove  toward 
the  hospital;  at  a  reckless  pace,  that  he  might  not 
have  to  talk.  He  had  no  wish  for  commonplace 
speech  with  her.  From  other  speech  the  habit  of 
self-repression  saved  him. 

But  not  wholly.  For  as  they  were  nearing  the 
hospital,  he  drew  the  horses  down  to  a  soberer  gait. 

"When,"  he  asked,  "will  you  drive  with  me 
again  ?" 

"Not  again." 

He  had  known,  even  before  she  spoke,  what  her 
answer  would  be.  And  he  knew — so  had  she  given 
it — that  it  was  irrevocable. 

"I  wonder  why  you  came  to-day." 

"I'd  been  thinking  of  you.  And  I  was— curious. 
To  see  what  sort  of  man  you  had  become." 

They  swung  into  the  hospital  grounds  and  up  to 
the  entrance.  Over  her  protest  he  descended  to 
help  her  to  the  ground.  He  took  a  queer  pleasure 
in  the  pain  the  needless  little  service  gave  him. 

He  sought  her  eyes.  "Was  it  only  curiosity, 
Kazia?" 

Her  answer  was  not  in  words.  Slowly  she  mount- 
ed the  stairs  to  the  doorway,  and  turning,  looked 


FANNED    INTO    FLAME  267 

steadily  down  upon  him.  Her  face  was  white,  but 
her  eyes  were  lustrous — and  unspeakably  sad. 

"Kazia— " 

"Good-by." 

The  door  clanged  behind  her.  Through  it  he 
watched  the  strong  supple  figure  pass  down  the  cor- 
ridor, and  so  out  of  his  sight. 

He  had  had  the  answer  he  wanted.  But  he  re- 
ceived it  with  a  heart  heavy  as  lead.  He  wanted 
her  as  he  had  desired  nothing  since  life  began.  And 
he  could  only  stand  and,  helpless,  see  her  leave  him. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

SUNDERED    BONDS 

DINNER,  on  the  rare  occasions  when  the  Tru- 
itts  dined  together  and  alone,  was  marked 
by  a  careful  formality  that  was  but  a  thin  disguise 
for  their  mutual  dislike.  At  no  other  time,  save 
by  hastily  cured  accident,  were  they  apt  to  con- 
front each  other.  The  quarrel  of  the  night  of 
their  first  invitation  to  Henley's  house  had  never 
been  healed.  Each  had  gone  a  separate  way,  ignor- 
ing as  far  as  possible  the  other's  existence. 

With  Unity  the  dislike  had  been  genuine.  She 
believed  that  when  her  easy  husband  had  so  sud- 
denly and  definitely  put  an  end  to  her  supremacy, 
she  had  been  robbed  of  a  right  that  she,  a  woman 
and  therefore  a  superior  finer  being,  should  enjoy. 
Fear,  of  him  and  of  what  the  man  she  now  per- 
ceived him  to  be  might  do  if  unduly  provoked,  kept 
dislike  alive  and  hot. 

With  him  it  had  been  rather  contempt  for  her 
airs  and  vanities,  for  the  uselessness  to  which,  even 
in  a  woman,  he  could  not  become  reconciled.  But 
on  this  night  it  was  both  contempt  and  a  rising  bit- 
ter resentment  that  heightened  the  emotional  tu- 
mult 

268 


SUNDERED    BONDS  269 

She  chose  this  hour  to  lay  aside  the  cold,  some- 
what theatric  hauteur  it  was  her  wont  to  assume 
before  him.  In  its  stead  she  donned  an  air  of  tri- 
umph, of  smiling  aggressiveness  that  he  was  quick 
to  connect  with  their  meeting  in  the  park.  She 
criticized  the  knot  of  his  necktie.  Several  times 
she  contradicted  him  wantonly.  He  saw  in  it  only 
the  small  vindictiveness  of  a  silly  woman,  but  re- 
sentment was  making  contemptuous  tolerance  of 
her  pettiness  impossible. 

"You're  trying  to  resurrect  an  ancient  habit,"  he 
warned  her.  "It's  very  dead,  I  assure  you." 

His  apparent  coldness  deceived  her.  She  an- 
swered with  a  significant  smile.  "Oh,  if  it  is  a  ques- 
tion of  habits — !"  She  concluded  with  a  disdain- 
ful shrug. 

He  suppressed  a  retort.  Just  then  a  servant  en- 
tered, bringing  the  fruit.  He  waited  until  they  were 
alone  again,  then  rose  abruptly  and  left  the  room. 

Unity,  too,  rose  and,  following,  overtook  him  in 
the  firelit  drawing-room. 

"You  are  rude.     I  wish  to  speak  with  you." 

"I'm  going  up  to  my  study." 

"You're  supposed  to  have  given  up  work,  I  be- 
lieve."' 

"I  wish  to  be  alone." 

"Now,  perhaps.  You  weren't  alone  this  after- 
noon in  the  park." 

"I  didn't  want  to  be  then.    What  is  that  to  you?" 

"A  wife  has  some  right  to  consideration,  I 
think." 


270     THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK   TRUITT 

"A  wife — yes.    You'll  hardly  claim  the  title." 

"Do  you  deny  it  to  me?" 

"A  wife  has  something  to  give  her  husband.  But 
you —  What  is  it  you  have  to  say?  By  your  man- 
ner I  judge  you  think  it  important." 

"It  is."  She  settled  herself  slowly  and  comfort- 
ably in  a  chair,  carefully  arranged  her  skirt  and 
looked  up  at  him  with  a  palpably  assumed  smile. 
"It  is.  You're  too  ill  to  work,  but  it  seems  not  too 
ill  to  go  driving  in  the  park  with  striking  looking 
women." 

With  an  effort  he  kept  his  voice  cold.  "And 
you  object,  is  that  it?" 

"I  do." 

"Very  well.  You've  registered  your  protest.  Is 
that  all?" 

"No,  it  is  not."  She  leaned  sharply  forward, 
forgetting  to  pose  and  to  smile,  the  delicate  pretti- 
ness  of  face  eclipsed  by  a  cloud  of  vixenish  temper. 
"It  is  not.  I  have  some  self-respect  and  regard  for 
our  position,  if  you  haven't.  Do  you  suppose  a 
husband  means  nothing  to  me  but  a  name?" 

He  glanced  hesitatingly  toward  the  door,  medi- 
tating retreat.  Then,  with  a  grim  tightening  of  his 
lips,  he  returned  his  gaze  to  her. 

"You  really  want  an  answer?  Then,  I  had  sup- 
posed a  husband  means  to  you  a  name — and  a 
check-book.  With  inexhaustible  leaves." 

"So  you  begrudge  me  the  money  I  spend !  You 
grow — " 


SUNDERED    BONDS  271 

"Your  expense  account,  fully  met,  is  the  best  an- 
swer to  that,  I  think." 

"But  I  want  more  than  money.  Do  you  think  a 
little  money — a  little  paltry  money — can  repay  me 
for  your  neglect  and  selfishness?" 

"So  you  scorn  money?  It's  news  to  me.  But  I 
think  you've  nothing  to  complain  of." 

"Nothing !"  she  cried.  "Is  it  nothing  that  I  have 
to  go  everywhere  alone,  always  having  to  listen  to 
whispers  behind  my  back  of  my  husband's  foolish 
attempts  to  play  the  man  about  town?  You  see, 
you  couldn't  keep  your  escapade  of  last  year  from 
me.  Or  that  you've  turned  the  old  set  against  me 
by  cheating  poor  Timothy  Woodhouse  out  of  his 
last  property?" 

He  winced  and  flushed  painfully  at  that.  She  saw 
and  believed  she  had  pierced  his  armor.  She  rose 
again,  that  she  might  deliver  her  final  thrust  most 
effectively. 

"Do  you  call  it  nothing  that  you,  who  have  no 
time  or  thought  to  spare  your  wife,  brazenly  flaunt 
your  women  in  public,  on  the  streets  and  in  the 
parks,  for  all  the  city  to  see  and  gossip  about?" 

He  was  standing  rigid,  both  hands  gripping  his 
cane,  his  gaze  fixed  unwaveringly  on  her.  The 
tightened  lips  had  become  the  merest  line. 

"If  you  refer  to  Mrs.  Whiting,"  he  began  at 
last  steadily,  "you  will  please  use  more  respectful 
terms." 

"You  reprove  me  on  her  account!     This,"  she 


272    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

cried  tragically,  "this  is  too  much.  I  suppose  this 
Mrs.  Whiting — if  that's  her  name — is  your  mis- 
tress— perhaps  I  should  say,  your  latest  mistress." 

"Why,  you—" 

The  storm  burst,  choking  back  speech,  but  rinding 
an  outlet  through  his  eyes.  He  reached  out  swiftly 
and  caught  her  hand  in  a  cruel  clutch,  crushing  the 
soft  useless  member  until  her  rings  bit  into  the 
flesh  and  she  cried  out  in  pain. 

"Let  me  go,"  she  gasped.    "You're  hurting  me." 

He  did  not  heed.  .  .  .  Bitter  thoughts  of  her 
burned;  resentment  for  the  years  when  she  had 
played  upon  his  desire,  upon  his  wistful  longing  for 
amiable  companionship  and  then  upon  his  loyalty 
to  their  contract;  for  the  crass  bully's  stupidity 
with  which  she,  intelligent  in  other  things,  had  ap- 
proached their  relation ;  for  her  refusal  to  share  his 
life  or  to  create  a  common  life,  with  which  she  had 
recompensed  his  early  passion,  feeble  counterpart 
of  love  though  it  had  been.  Most  bitter  of  all  was 
the  thought  of  the  love  between  which  and  him  she 
stood  a  hopeless  barrier.  He  had,  even  in  his  anger, 
no  exalted  notion  of  his  part  in  their  relation;  but 
at  least  he  had  sought,  as  long  as  he  could  in  hope, 
to  make  it  decent  and  beautiful,  a  refuge  from  the 
ugly  strife  against  which,  a  secret  part  of  him,  as 
tenacious  of  existence  as  was  his  desire,  had  never 
ceased  to  mutter  its  futile  protest.  To  her  both  he 
and  their  relation  had  been  but  a  means  to  an  end. 
And  what  an  end ! 


SUNDERED    BONDS  273 

He  released  her  and  sank  back  into  a  chair.  She 
tried  to  draw  herself  up  haughtily. 

"So  you  stoop  to — " 

"Don't  be  ridiculous,"  he  snarled.  "I  stoop  to 
anything  these  days.  Just  now  I'm  trying  to  think 
out  what  you  and  I  are  going  to  do.  Sit  down  and 
quit  playing  the  tragedy  queen." 

She  hesitated,  then  obeyed.  He  closed  his  eyes 
and  leaned  back.  The  storm  spent  itself,  leaving 
him  weak  and  heartsick.  After  many  minutes  he 
looked  up  to  her. 

"I'm  not  very  proud  of  this  scene.  You  may 
take  that  as  an  apology." 

"What  are  apologies  worth?"  she  answered 
coldly. 

"Nothing,  of  course.     But  I  want  you  to  know 

.I'm  ashamed."    He  paused,  wistfully  regarding  the 

loveliness  so  prodigal  in  promise.     "I  think  we've 

come  to  the  end  of  our  chapter,  Unity.     But  I'll 

give  you — its — one  more  chance." 

"You'd  think  I  were  a  criminal!" 

"We  both  are — but  let  that  go.  Heretofore 
you've  made  our  life.  And  you've  failed.  Since 
our  first  month  we've  never  been  really  happy,  at 
least  in  each  other.  Now  let  me  choose.  Let's  go 
away  somewhere — " 

"To  New  York  or  abroad?" 

"Not  to  New  York  or  abroad.  To  Bethel  or 
some  place  where  we  can  live  a  quiet,  decent,  nat- 
ural life.  Let  us  begin  over  again  and  try  to  re- 


274    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

cover  what  we've  lost — or  rather  what  we  nevef 
had." 

"You  are  absurd!" 

"Is  it  absurd  for  a  man  to  ask  his  wife — you've 
claimed  the  title — to  share  the  life  he  wants  and 
needs?" 

"You  forget  to  consider  what  /  would  have  from 
such  an  arrangement." 

"You  would  have  me." 

She  answered  with  a  contemptuous  shrug.  "I 
will  do  nothing  so  silly.  You  ask  too  much." 

"Ah!  You're  franker  than  I  thought  you  could 
be.  I'm  glad  you're  frank."  He  rose,  looking  curi- 
ously down  at  her.  "If  you  look  back,  you'll  find 
I've  never  asked  you  anything  until  now.  I've  been 
content  to  take — at  least,  I've  taken — only  what  it 
suited  your  whims  to  give  me.  And  you've  given 
exactly  nothing.  Nothing  more,  anyhow,  than  the 
street  woman  would  give — not  so  much,  because 
she  would  sometimes  consult  my  wishes  and  inter- 
est, if  only  for  business  reasons.  You've  taken 
me,  my  acquiescence  and  my  contributions  for 
granted." 

"And  what,"  she  flung  back,  "have  you  givert 
me?" 

"From  another  woman  that  might  be  a  crushing 
retort.  I've  given  you  very  little.  But,  as  it  hap- 
pens, it's  been  all  you  wanted.  You  wouldn't  take, 
you  never  wanted,  the  only  worth  while  thing  I  had 
to  give."  He  paused  again,  his  manner  hardening. 
"However,  all  that  is  ended.  I  go  away  to-morrow 


SUNDERED    BONDS  275 

morning.    I  don't  think  I  shall  ever  see  you  again." 

Even  then  he  might  have  relented,  if  she  had 
given  him  excuse.  For  beneath  his  longing  to  be 
free  pf  the  incubus  of  a  woman  with  whom  he  had 
nothing  in  common,  beneath  even  the  love  whose 
sudden  dazing  revelation  had  given  freedom  a 
hundredfold  value,  was  a  sense  of  cowardice  in 
seeking  to  escape  the  just  penalty  of  his  folly  and 
failure.  But  she  gave  him  no  excuse. 

"You're  asking  for  a  divorce  ?" 

"Yes." 

"I  suppose,"  she  sneered,  "you  want  to  marry 
that  woman,  your  mistress." 

He  held  himself  under  rigid  self-control.  "She 
isn't  my  mistress,  though  I  love  her.  She  was  the 
girl  I  gave  up  years  ago  out  of  loyalty  to  yp.u." 

There  was  nothing  lovely  about  Unity  Truitt 
just  then. 

"And  now  you  want  to  renew  the  broken  ro- 
mance. Very  pretty !  But,"  she  laughed  in  vindic- 
tive pleasure  in  her  fancied  ability  to  thwart  his 
desire,  "you  shan't  have  her.  I  don't  choose  to  be 
a  divorced  woman.  And  I  know  you  can't  get  a 
divorce  without  my  consent." 

"I  think  you  will  consent,"  he  said  quietly. 

"I  will  not.    I  don't  choose—" 

"The  choice  is  with  you,  of  course.  But  you 
must  understand  it.  You're  through  with  me  in 
any  case.  But  if  you  consent  to  the  divorce,  I'll 
make  a  settlement  that  will  satisfy  you.  If  not,  I 
will  make  only  the  allowance  I  think  you've  earned." 


276    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

She  went  pale  at  that,  the  one  threat  which  could 
reach  her.  "Why,"  she  gasped,  "you  couldn't  do 
that.  Even  you  couldn't  be  so  brutal — " 

"Choose." 

"But  you  couldn't.  You — I  must  have  time  to 
think—" 

"You  must  choose  now."    He  was  inflexible. 

She  sat  transfixed,  beginning  to  comprehend  the 
reality  of  his  purpose.  Her  confidence  suddenly 
melted.  Fear  shone  in  her  eyes.  She  rose,  and 
with  a  piteous  pleading  gesture,  too  frightened  to 
be  conscious  of  her  hypocrisy,  she  went  to  him. 

"Why,  Mark — Mark,  dear !  You  can't  mean  that. 
You  couldn't  cast  me  off  like  this.  Why,  we're  hus- 
band and  wife  and — I  know  I  haven't  been  fair  to 
you,  but  I  can't  let  you  go.  Let  me  make  up  this 
last  year  to  you.  Let  us  go  away,  as  you  say,  and 
begin  over.  We  can  be  happy — " 

The  stammering  incoherent  cry  halted,  silenced 
by  the  unrelenting  quality  of  his  steady  eyes.  The 
outstretched  hands  fell  limply  to  her  sides.  She 
shrank  back  a  step  from  him. 

"I  believe — you  do — mean  it." 

"I'm  waiting  for  your  choice." 

After  a  little  it  came,  gaspingly. 

"I  have  no  choice.    I — I  must  consent." 

He  turned  away  and  without  another  word  or 
glance  for  her,  limped  heavily  out  of  the  room. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

BOND   THOUGH    FREE 

THE  Truitt  divorce  sensation  had  reached  and 
passed  its  height. 

One  day,  when  the  decree  was  scarcely  two  weeks 
old,  a  man  alighted  from  an  incoming  express  train. 
He  did  not  look  like  a  roue  or  the  villain  of  a  fa- 
mous scandal;  he  himself  did  not  know  that  he 
had  been  heralded  in  such  a  role.  His  doctor  would 
hardly  have  recognized  him.  He  was  still  thin  and 
the  cane  had  not  been  discarded,  but  he  was  clear- 
eyed  and  healthily  bronzed  and  the  limp  was  far 
less  noticeable  than  at  any  time  since  the  accident. 

Six  months  he  had  spent  in  the  northern  wilder- 
ness, living  in  the  open,  sleeping  under  the  stars, 
with  no  company  but  his  own  thoughts  and  a  taci- 
turn half-breed  Indian.  But  they  had  not  been 
lonely  months,  nor  did  he  think  them  wasted.  For 
they  had  brought  him  to  what  he  was  pleased  to 
call  a  new  birth. 

Again  and  again  he  had  passed  in  review  the 
events  of  his  career,  scrutinizing  them  closely  for 
the  mistakes  that  had  led  to  his  disappointment; 
for  a  disappointment,  a  huge  failure  as  a  source  of 
happiness,  his  scheme  of  existence  admittedly  had 

277 


278    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

been.  He  found  many  such  mistakes.  Chief  of  all 
was  the  very  plan,  his  theory  of  happiness.  He 
had  believed  that  by  the  successful  matching  of  wit 
and  strength  and  courage  against  those  of  his  fel- 
lows was  that  coveted  treasure  to  be  won.  Nat- 
urally, he  thought  now,  the  scheme  had  failed;  he 
had  not  deserved  to  win;  for  strife  is  necessarily, 
cruel  and  the  triumph  of  the  victor  is  made  up  of 
the  miseries  of  the  many  conquered.  Therefore, 
he  discarded  that  theory.  Life,  the  battle-field,  he 
saw  only  as  an  ugly  shambles,  without  splendor, 
without  power  to  thrill. 

But  for  the  discarded  theory  he  needed  a  sub- 
stitute. And  so  he  turned  to  the  other  pole.  Since 
strife  had  failed,  therefore,  peace  held  the  secret — 
a  life  passed  in  amity  with  his  fellows,  taking  from 
them  nothing  they  did  not  willingly  give,  even  shar- 
ing with  them  what  he  had.  It  was  a  beautiful 
theory — to  a  man  whpse  appetite  for  battling  had 
died — seen  in  the  winter  starlight  or  across  stretches 
of  gleaming  snow.  It  is  true,  it  was  more  than  a 
little  vague.  How  and  where  were  questions  he 
left  trustingly  to  the  future.  Surely  somehow, 
somewhere  he  could  find  an  empty  niche  into  which 
he  would  fit  neatly,  without  friction.  It  would  be 
his  business  to  seek  out  that  niche. 

He  praised  heaven  that  he  was  free  to  make  the 
search,  calmly  and  wisely,  relieved  of  the  hard  ne- 
cessity for  struggle — and  in  company  with  the  wom- 
an whom  his  first  task  was  to  make  his.  When  did 


BOND    THOUGH    FREE  279 

the  conscious  seeker  after  happiness  ever  leave  love 
out  pf  the  account  ? 

|  Such  a  woman  as  he  painted  up  there  in  the  wil- 
derness! Strong  and  simple  and  sure,  so  big  that 
neither  time  nor  injury  could  wholly  kill  her  love; 
able  to  survive  the  strife,  but  needing  peace  as  he 
needed  it — he  remembered  and  longed  to  drive  away 
the  somber  shadow  that  sometimes  darkened  her 
eyes.  He  had  no  doubt  of  her,  or  that  all  barriers 
between  them  should  be  thrown  down.  He  was  in 
company  with  her  already;  that  is  why  the  months 
alone  were  not  lonely.  Rhythmical  dip  of  paddle, 
the  splashing  of  wavelets  against  his  canoe,  were 
but  the  accompaniment  to  the  love  chant  ever  in 
his  heart.  The  rising  tempest  sang  of  rapturous 
matings,  fulfilment  of  a  holy  law. 
•i  A  futile  philosophy,  a  mad  visioning,  both  in- 
duced by  recovered  health  and  the  spell  of  the  un- 
tainted wilds.  But  he  was  soon  to  learn  what  he 
had  left  out  of  the  account. 

The  first  news  of  the  Truitts'  separation  had 
evoked  scant  interest  from  the  gossips.  But  as  the 
time  set  for  the  trial  approached  it  began  to  be 
whispered  about  that  more  than  the  usual  stale 
story  of  domestic  disagreement  lay  behind  the  af- 
fair. The  whisper  became  an  audible  chorus.  It 
was  a  dull  season  in  a  year  when  no  important  elec- 
tion impended,  there  was  a  dearth  of  spicy  news; 
the  newspapers  avidly  seized  this  chance  to  give 
flavor  to  their  columns.  From  some  source,  which 


280    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

might  have  been  identified  as  Unity's  lawyer,  re- 
porters were  furnished  material  for  innumerable 
suggestive  rumors.  Vague  but  deftly  worded  innu- 
endoes of  Truitt's  cruel  treatment  of  his  wife  ap- 
peared, of  his  sly  profligacy,  of  the  one  strikingly 
handsome  woman  who  had  captivated  his  fancy  and 
whom  it  was  supposed  he  would  marry  after  the 
divorce.  The  trial  with  its  fuller  disclosures  was 
hungrily  awaited  by  a  community  whose  heritage 
of  Puritanism  but  whetted  its  appetite  for  the  sa- 
lacity it  self-righteously  condemned. 

Unity  suffered  nothing  at  the  hands  of  gossip. 
She  was  painted  as  a  rarely  lovely  woman  to  whom 
the  notoriety  was  torture,  but  who  bore  up  under 
it  with  the  sweet  courage  of  long  suffering  inno- 
cence. Her  social  triumphs  were  recalled,  her  char- 
itable activities  in  St.  Swithin's  emphasized.  She 
became  a  sort  of  heroine.  The  story  most  widely 
played  up — for  its  touching  pathos — of  her  ro- 
mantic devotion  to  her  husband  during  his  early 
struggles,  rewarded  by  brutal  neglect  when  he  had 
achieved  affluence,  wrung  tears  from  the  sentimental 
multitude. 

It  was  a  clever  campaign.  The  thing  grew,  spread 
beyond  the  limits  of  the  city.  It  became  the  scan- 
dal of  the  hour,  a  racy  tidbit  to  add  zest  to  the 
nation's  breakfast.  From  Truitt,  who  had  con> 
pletely  disappeared,  came  no  denial.  His  flight  and 
silence  were  taken  as  an  admission  of  guilt. 

At  the  trial,  to  be  sure,  the  testimony  was  a  dis- 
tinct disappointment.  It  proved  merely  common- 


BOND    THOUGH    FREE  281 

/• 

place  desertion  and  touched  but  lightly  on  only  one 
short-lived  period  of  dissipation  during  which 
Truitt,  at  certain  midnight  suppers,  had  shared  with 
other  men  the  more  or  less  interesting  company  of 
sundry  nameless  women.  The  public,  deprived  of 
the  scandal  for  which  its  mouth  had  been  watering, 
decided  that  Mrs.  Truitt  had  been  overly  magnani- 
mous in  thus  sparing  her  husband  and  let  its  heated 
imagination  supply  the  lacking  details.  Truitt  en- 
tered no  defense  and  a  decree  was  quickly  handed 
down.  Mrs.  Truitt  at  once  sailed  for  Europe. 

He  hailed  a  cab  and  gave  the  name  of  a  club 
that  to  cabby  brought  visions  of  a  liberal  tip.  In  a 
few  minutes  the  destination  was  reached  and  the 
passenger  descended  to  the  pavement.  At  that  mo- 
ment a  woman,  whom  he  recognized  as  one  of 
Unity's  familiars,  approached.  He  lifted  his  hat 
and  bowed.  She  looked  squarely  at  him  and  passed 
on  without  greeting.  Red  surged  into  his  cheeks. 

"Cut!"  he  muttered.  "I  suppose  Unity's  given 
her  version  of  our  smash-up.  Unity  would." 

He  paid  his  fare  and  entered  the  portals  from 
which  no  rich  man  had  ever  been  excluded.  At  the 
desk  a  well  dressed  and  usually  very  polite  young 
clerk  so  far  forgot  himself  as  to  look  his  amaze- 
ment. 

"Mr.  Truitt!  I  supposed  you  were  out  of  town. 
I  thought — "  He  stopped  in  confusion,  remember- 
ing that  it  was  no  part  of  his  business  to  think. 

Mark  looked  hard  at  him.    "You  thought?" 


282     THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK   TRUITT 

*  * 

"I  thought  you  were  out  of  town,"  stammered 
the  clerk. 

"I  was.  And  now  I'm  back,"  Mark  answered 
dryly.  "So  I  think  I'll  arrange  for  rooms  here  in- 
definitely." 

Nor  was  this  all  pf  the  city's  greeting  to  the  re- 
turned wanderer.  The  rooms  arranged  for,  he 
turned  away  from  the  desk,  to  come  face  to  face 
with  a  man  whom  he  had  used  to  like  and  who,  he 
had  reason  to  believe,  had  not  been  without  inter- 
est in  him. 

"Why,  hello,  Baker!"  Mark  held  out  a  friendly 
hand,  with  a  genial  smile  that  was  part  of  his  new 
resolve. 

Baker  took  the  hand,  but  released  it  quickly.  "Ah ! 
How  are  you,  Truitt?" 

"Bully.  Just  back  from  a  long  stay  in  the  woods. 
Dine  here  with  me  to-night,  won't  you?" 

"Thanks,  no.  I'm  probably  not  dining  here.  Ex- 
cuse me.  Some  men  I  must  see — " 

Baker  broke  hastily  away,  passed  a  few  words 
with  a  near-by  group  and  went  out.  The  ruse  was 
obvious.  Mark,  feeling  as  though  he  had  received 
a  blow  in  the  face,  stared  after  the  retreating  figure. 
The  genial  smile  faded.  Then  he  went  to  the  rooms 
he  had  engaged.  Passing  the  group  that  had  helped 
out  Baker's  ruse,  he  was  conscious  of  their  furtive 
curious  glances. 

Arrived  in  his  rooms,  his  first  act  was  to  have 
back  newspaper  files  sent  up  to  him.  For  two  hours 
he  read  how,  while  he  was  winning  back  health  in 


BOND    THOUGH    FREE  283 

the  wilderness  and  planning  a  life  of  amity  with 
his  fellows,  his  name  had  been  bandied  about  on  the 
tongues  of  slander  and  gossip.  As  he  read  in  the 
light  of  what  had  just  happened  the  amazing  ac- 
cumulation of  suggested  filth,  only  here  and  there 
brushing  the  outer  edges  of  fact,  utter  bewilderment 
filled  him.  Shirley's  brief  communication,  making 
mention  of  "some  talk",  received  at  the  edge  of  the 
wilderness,  had  not  prepared  him  for  this. 

"It's  all  a  pack  of  dirty  lies,"  he  cried.  "How 
could  these  men,  who've  seen  me  go  in  and  out 
every  day,  believe  it?  What  rotters  they  must  -be 
themselves  to  be  able  to  believn  it !  By  God !  I'll — " 
He  stopped,  with  a  sudden  feeling  of  dismay.  "Why 
— why,  I  can  do  nothing" 

It  was  true.  He  could  do  nothing.  He  could  not 
buttonhole  every  man  who  looked  coldly  upon  him 
or  passed  by  on  the  other  side,  saying,  "See  here, 
my  friend,  I  am  not  a  profligate.  I  am  not  a  wife- 
beater.  All  these  rumors  you've  been  accepting  are 
merely  by  late  wife's  revenge  for  my  refusal  to  con- 
tinue a  loveless  unnatural  relation  that  brought  only 
unhappiness."  And  even  if  he  could  do  that,  what 
headway  could  he  make  in  the  destruction  of  the 
fabric  that  rumor,  stimulated  by  a  rejected  wom- 
an's spite,  had  built  and  that  needed  but  the  magic 
of  a  hostile  touch  to  grow  like  a  weed  after  sum- 
mer rains?  He  was  helpless. 

"Then  I  am  not  free!  She  has  put  a  mark  on 
me  that  a  lifetime  can't  rub  out.  Must  we  pay  for- 
ever for  our  mistakes?  , 


284    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

He  could  not  guess  then  how  dearly  he  was  to 
pay.  But  within  a  week  he  was  learning  with  be- 
wildering rapidity  the  extent  of  his  last  tribute  to 
Unity's  vanity.  It  did  not  amount  quite  to  ostra- 
cism. But  men — the  big  and  fine,  the  Bakers,  at 
least,  for  whose  respect  and  companionship  he  had 
a  healthy  desire — studiously  avoided  him,  or  when 
a  meeting  could  not  be  evaded,  greeted  him  with  a 
cold  and  distant  formality  that  did  not  in  the  least 
suggest  amity.  An  even  sharper  sting  was  the  at- 
tention of  another  class  of  men  for  whom,  having 
put  his  lips  briefly  to  the  cup  they  quaffed  so  co- 
piously, he  had  nothing  but  disgust.  Gilded  youths, 
notable  for  their  callow  dissipations,  sought  him 
out,  that  they  might  boast  of  their  acquaintance 
with  the  notorious  Mark  Truitt. 

The  first  numbing  shock  over,  the  thing  began  to 
hurt  him  cruelly.  Then  he  found  himself  harden- 
ing to  the  injustice  of  it,  growing  reckless,  the 
springs  of  his  new  desire  for  amiable  existence 
freezing.  But  he  would  not  flee.  He  donned  the 
mask  the  proud  man,  hurt,  always  assumes,  making 
no  outcry,  jealously  hiding  his  wound  under  a 
stoic  indifference. 

One  evening,  when  his  residence  at  the  club  had 
continued  about  three  weeks,  the  affair  came  to  a 
climax.  Having  just  refused  a  cocktail  insistently 
offered  by  a  pimply  youth  who  called  him  "Old 
man,"  he  was  entering  the  grill  for  dinner.  At  the 
sound  of  his  name  from  a  near-by  group  of  diners, 
he  halted  involuntarily. 


BOND    THOUGH    FREE  285 

"That's  all  well  enough,"  one  of  the  diners  was 
saying.  "A  club's  a  club  and,  of  course,  we  have 
to  allow  a  certain  latitude.  Still,  when  it  becomes 
the  refuge  for  a  man  so  notorious  we  couldn't  have 
him  in  our  homes — "  The  speaker  was  checked  by 
a  warning  kick. 

Mark,  sweeping  the  group  with  eyes  from  which 
the  mask  had  momentarily  fallen,  met  Baker's  em- 
barrassed gaze.  With  a  contemptuous  smile,  he 
passed  on  to  his  own  table  and  ordered  a  dinner 
which  he  made  such  show  of  eating  as  inward  rage 
and  pain  allowed. 

His  coffee  and  cigar  had  just  been  brought  when 
Baker  crossed  the  room  and  stood  by  his  table. 

"Truitt — "  he  began  uncertainly. 

"Well?"  Mark's  upward  glance  was  not  welcom- 
ing. 

"May  I  sit  down  for  a  minute?" 

"Aren't  you  afraid  of  catching  the  plague?" 

"I'm  more  afraid  of  being  kicked  for  my  imper- 
tinence." 

"I  understand,"  said  Mark  grimly,  "I'm  a  pretty 
tough  customer,  but  I  don't  commit  assaults  in  pub- 
lic. Sit  down." 

Baker  sat  down,  looking  earnestly  across  the  ta- 
ble at  Mark.  "Look  here,  Truitt.  There  are  things 
on  both  sides  of  your  fence  I  don't  approve.  But 
I  particularly  disapprove  this  Pharisee  business.  I 
felt  like  a  cad  when  you  caught  us  over  there.  I 
want  to  apologize  for  my  part  in  it,  though  it  wasn't 
a  speaking  part." 


"All  right."  Mark  lighted  his  cigar.  "You've 
done  your  duty." 

"But  this  is  a  little  more  than  duty.  I — "  Baker 
hesitated.  "Oh,  hang  it  all!  Some  things  become 
so  painful  only  plain  speech  serves.  You  don't 
need  to  be  told  of  the  stories  going  around.  Lately 
it's  occurred  to  me  that  you've  been  letting  us  take 
them  at  face,  without  trying  to  contradict  them. 
That's  the  thing  I'd  do  myself — if  I  were  in  the 
right.  But  it  can  be  carried  to  extremes.  Have  I 
your  permission  to  say  that  the  stories  are — let  us 
say,  overdrawn?" 

"You  have  not.  Life's  too  short  to  enter  into  a 
contest  with  rumor." 

"But  your  silence — " 

"Is  my  affair,"  Mark  answered  gruffly,  rising. 
"You  may  say  to  your  meticulous  friend  that  I'm 
about  to  resign  from  this  club." 

Baker,  too,  rose,  looking  at  Mark  keenly. 

"Oh,  come,  Truitt,"  he  began,  "that's—" 

But  Mark  cut  him  short.  "At  least  it  will  save 
him  and  his  sort  the  necessity  of  setting  a  prece- 
dent that  would  decimate  the  club.  Good  evening." 

Henley,  who  had  been  out  of  the  city  when  Mark 
returned,  came  back  soon  after  the  latter  took  up 
his  residence  in  the  hotel.  Mark  approached  him 
with  the  inward  shrinking  that  preceded  every  new 
meeting  just  then. 

"You've  picked  up  physically,"  Henley  remarked 
after  a  cool  handshake. 

"Six  months  in  the  woods  accounts  for  that." 


BOND    THOUGH    FREE  287 

"I'd  think,  if  it  was  doing  you  so  much  good, 
you'd  have  stayed." 

"In  other  words?" 

"In  other  words,"  said  Henley,  "why  did  you 
come  back  now?" 

Mark  laughed  hollowly.  "I  didn't  know  I'd  be- 
come a  notorious  character." 

"How,  in  heaven's  name,"  Henley  exclaimed, 
"did  you  let  yourself  get  caught  in  a  divorce  court 
scandal?  I'd  have  thought  that  you,  of  all  men,  if 
you  had  to  play  the  fool,  would  at  least  have  used 
finesse." 

So  even  Henley  believed  the  rumors ! 

"At  any  rate,  no  one  but  myself  is  hurt." 

"That's  not  true.  Every  one  who  had  anything 
to  do  with  you  is  more  or  less  hurt.  The  company 
is  reflected  on.  I,"  Henley  concluded  with  an  air 
that  declared  the  indictment  to  be  complete  and  un- 
answerable, "I  am  besmirched,  because  we're  known 
to  be  in  so  many  things  together." 

"That,"  Mark  returned  coldly,  "can  be  easily 
cured.  We  can  wind  up  our  affairs.  And  I'm 
ready  to  resign  from  the  company." 

"You  can't  cure  the  fact  the  we  have  been  to- 
gether. And  you  can't  resign.  Are  you  going  to 
add  to  the  scandal  by  marrying  that  woman?" 

"What  woman?"  Mark's  voice  was  cool  and 
steady. 

"The  one  that  turned  your  Head  and  your  wife 
was  smart  enough  to  discover." 

"You've  heard  names,  then  ?" 


288     THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK   TRUITT 

"No,"  growled  Henley.  "She's  as  mysterious  as 
the  rest  of  your  didoes." 

"As  mythical,  you  mean,"  Mark  answered  in  a 
voice  that  did  not  betray  his  relief.  "There  was  no 
woman." 

"What!    You  mean  these  stories  aren't  true?" 

"You'd  seen  me  almost  every  day  for  years.  You 
might  have  guessed  that." 

"But  last  year — those  women — " 

"An  experiment  in  idiocy — nothing  worse.  There 
were  no  women  except  at  arm's  length." 

Henley  surveyed  him  keenly.  "Then  how  did 
these  stories  get  out?  But  you  needn't  answer.  I 
can  guess.  A  woman  is  never  clever  except  when 
she's  up  to  mischief. 

"However,"  he  went  on,  "this  puts  a  different 
face  on  the  matter.  As  you  say,  I  might  have 
guessed  the  truth."  This,  for  Henley,  was  abject 
apology. 

Mark  shook  his  head.  "My  resignation  holds 
just  the  same." 

"Are  you  going  to  let  a  little  talk  drive  you  out  ?" 
Henley  demanded. 

"It  isn't  that.  I  had  decided  before  I  knew  of 
it.  I'm  tired  of  the  scramble.  I  want — peace." 
Mark  laughed  discordantly.  "And  I'm  getting  it 
with  a  vengeance." 

"As  much  as  you'll  ever  get  it,"  Henley  returned 
promptly.  "I  know  what  you  want.  Who  doesn't  ? 
Some  time  or  other  every  man  wants,  or  thinks  he 
wants,  peace.  And  if  we  had  it,  we'd  want  to  die. 


BOND    THOUGH    FREE  289 

The  only  man  who  ever  really,  consistently  wanted 
peace  was  hanged  to  the  cross  for  preaching  it." 
He  paused,  looking  gravely  at  the  troubled  man  be- 
fore him.  When  he  resumed,  there  was  in  his  voice 
a  gruff  kindliness  probably  no  one  had  ever  heard 
from  Thomas  Henley  before.  "You  can't  have  it. 
There's  no  such  thing  as  peace.  How  could  there 
be,  in  a  world  of  a  million  cross  purposes?  Every- 
thing a  man  has  has  value  because  some  one  else 
wants  it  Everything  he  would  do  hurts  another 
and  that  other  is  bound  to  resist.  If  you  won  what 
you  call  peace,  you'd  have  to  fight  to  keep  it.  There's 
no  escape  from  the  scramble." 

"Very  pretty — for  you!  You  belong.  But  I — 
What's  a  man  to  do  when  he  finds  he's  a  misfit?" 

"I  told  you  once  before — things  are.  Accept 
them,  fit  yourself  to  them,  forget  theories  that  lead 
nowhere.  Pick  out  the  thing  you  want  most  and 
fight  until  you  get  it.  Then  fight  to  keep  it.  Be- 
sides, you  aren't  a  misfit.  The  trouble  with  you  is, 
your  strength  is  your  greatest  weakness — you've 
too  much  imagination.  And  you're  not  a  well  man 
yet.  Go  back  to  your  woods  until  you're  cured. 
Then  you'll  feel  the  itch  to  get  into  the  scramble 
again  and  break  a  few  heads." 

But  Henley  the  philosopher  had  done.  He  re- 
sumed his  usual  crisp  manner. 

"Moreover,  you  can't  resign.  The  new  agree- 
ment with  the  men  comes  up  next  year  and  the 
Quinby  company  faces  the  fight  of  its  existence. 
We'll  need  every  good  head  we've  got.  And  if 


290     THE   AMBITION    OF   MARK   TRUIT1 

that  isn't  enough,  your  withdrawal  would  leave  me 
to  fight  Quinby  alone.  And — I  made  you,  don't 
forget  that.  You've  got  what  you  wanted  out  of 
the  company  and  me.  You  can't  drop  out  easily 
now  and  shirk  the  responsibilities." 

"You  say,  can't?" 

"I  say,  can't.  You've  got  a  sense  of  obligation, 
haven't  you  ?" 

"If  I  have,"  said  Mark  grimly,  "it's  the  last  proof 
that  I  am  a  misfit." 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE    RED    GLOW 

HENLEY  did  not  know  what  an  impetus  he 
had  given  with  his  "Pick  out  the  thing  you 
want  most  and  fight  until  you  get  it." 

Mark  had  not  sought  out  Kazia.  More  than  he 
would  admit  to  himself,  he  had  suffered  during  the 
weeks  of  injustice.  Suffering  had  for  the  time 
dulled  the  longing  for  her.  And  behind  that  had 
been  a  proud  reluctance  to  offer  a  love  tainted'  by 
the  tongues  of  scandal  mongers.  But  now  the  hun- 
ger for  a  great  love — born  on  an  autumn  evening 
of  his  youth  when  he  had  come  upon  a  frail  slip 
of  a  girl  raptly  gazing  into  the  twilight,  too  much 
a  part  of  him  to  be  stifled  even  during  the  years 
of  fierce  blind  struggle  and  disappointment — made 
itself  felt  again,  downing  pride.  .  .  . 

He  called  up  the  Todd  Hospital,  was  told  that 
Mrs.  Whiting  was  not  there,  but  could  be  reached 
at  a  certain  number.  He  called  up  that  number. 

The  response  came  in  a  low  voice  that  even  the 
telephone  could  not  rob  of  its  music  for  him.  His 
heart  leaped. 

"Kazia!" 

There  was  a  pause,  then  the  low  voice  came 
again :  "Who  is  that  ?" 

291 


292     THE   AMBITION    OF    MARK   TRUITT 

"This  is  Mark  Truitt." 

Another  wait,  so  long  that  he  thought  the  con- 
nection had  been  broken. 

"Yes?" 

"Is  there  any  place  I  could  meet  you — by  acci- 
dent?" 

"Is  there  any  reason  for  an  accident?" 

"If  you  think  not,  there  is  none.  .  .  .  Are  you 
still  there?" 

"Yes.  .  .  .  You  can  come  here."  She  gave 
an  address. 

"This  evening?" 

"If  you  wish.    .    .    .    Good-by." 

He  alighted  from  a  car  that  evening  before  a  big 
but  unpretentious  apartment-house  in  one  of  the 
city's  quieter  neighborhoods.  Three  stories  above 
the  street  he  came  to  a  door  on  which  was  her 
card.  He  knocked. 

She  opened  the  door.  For  many  seconds  they 
stood  looking  at  each  other,  motionless,  speechless. 
.  .  .  He  broke  the  silence,  in  a  strange  greeting 
that  spoke  of  itself. 

"How  often  I  remember  you  so — on  the  thresh- 
old!" 

"I  thought  it  was  your  step."  The  rich  color 
surged  before  the  invitation,  lent  meaning  by  his 
greeting.  "Will  you  come  in?" 

He  took  her  outstretched  hand  and  stepped  with- 
in. There  was  no  act  that  night  so  small  that  it 
did  not  have  its  significance.  The  sound  of  the 
closing  door  sent  a  delicious  tremor  over  him. 


THE   RED    GLOW  293 

The  quiet  little  sitting-room  was  a  caress.  He 
thought  he  had  never  found,  even  in  the  wilderness, 
so  restful  a  place.  He  could  not  tell  why  he  thought 
it  different  from  other  rooms  he  had  known;  there 
was  nothing  distinctive  in  the  simple  inexpensive 
furnishings  or  in  the  arrangement.  Yet  he  did  find 
it  so,  and  surprisingly  feminine. 

"I  suppose,"  he  said  aloud,  when  they  were 
seated,  "it's  part  of  the  mystery  of  personality." 

"What  is?" 

"This  room.  It's  the  homiest  I've  ever  been  in." 

"I'm  glad  you  like  it.  I've  had  it  for  years.  I 
suppose  I  oughtn't  to  keep  it,  because  I  don't  get 
much  good  of  it  except  in  vacation.  But  I  like  to 
think  of  it  as  a  place  to  come  back  to." 

"You're  on  your  vacation  now?" 

"Yes.  I  have  a  long  one  this  year.  I  take  only 
Doctor  Wolf's  cases  now,  and  he  is  abroad  for  the 
summer.  He  ordered  me  to  the  seashore,  because 
it  had  been  a  hard  winter.  But  I  preferred  to  come 
here,  to  play  at  keeping  house — and  to  be  by  my- 
self." 

He  leaned  back  in  the  chair  to  which  she  had  as- 
signed him  and  watched  her  under  cover  of  their 
inconsequential  chat.  She,  too,  was  surprisingly 
feminine  that  evening.  She  was  sitting  near  the 
table,  so  that  the  cone  of  bright  light  cast  by  the 
shaded  lamp  fell  on  the  sewing  his  coming  had  not 
long  interrupted.  The  mellowed  reflection  on  her 
face  touched  it  with  a  softness,  almost  a  beauty,  he 
had  not  seen  in  her  before,  Her  dress,  of  some 


294     THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK   TRUITT 

soft,  pale  blue  stuff,  added  to  the  illusion  of  do- 
mesticity. He  might  have  forgotten  a  former  ver- 
dict as  to  the  lack  of  fineness  with  which  a  woman 
struggling  alone  pays  for  survival,  if  he  had  not 
glanced  at  her  hands.  They  were  not  pretty  hands ; 
scrupulous  care  could  not  make  them  so.  Despite 
the  daintiness  pf  their  task,  they  spoke  of  other  and 
less  feminine  toil. 

"You  said,"  he  picked  up  the  thread  of  their  con- 
versation, "you  wanted  to  be  alone.  Don't  many 
people  come  here?" 

"A  few  girls  from  the  hospital,  the  janitor  and 
the  gas-meter  man.  And  now  you,"  she  glanced  up 
from  her  sewing,  smiling,  "for  distinction." 

"Why  did  you  ask  me  to  come  here?" 

"Because  I  didn't  want  you  to  think — "  She 
paused  uncertainly. 

"That  you  believe  all  you  may  have  heard  of  me 
lately.  Thank  you,  Kazia.  But  I'd  have  expected 
you  to  say  that." 

Her  eyes  fell  again  to  the  sewing. 

"Kazia,"  he  asked  directly,  after  a  moment,  "has 
any  one  ever  connected  you  with  my  scandal?" 

She  looked  up  quickly  again.  "Why,  no.  How 
could  they?" 

"A  mysterious  woman  has  been  mentioned.  I've 
been  afraid  that  every  one  I've  had  to  do  with  might 
be  smirched  with  me.  I  didn't  want  you — of  all 
women — to  be  touched." 

"Do  you  care  so  much  about  it  all?" 


THE   RED    GLOW  295 

"I  wouldn't  admit  it  to  any  one  else.  But  I  dp; 
care,  Kazia." 

She  was  silent,  but  the  dark  eyes  were  very  gen- 
tle. The  embroidery  fell  unnoticed  to  the  floor. 
His  glance  fell  upon  the  idle  hands  lying  just  within 
the  rim  of  the  light.  She  drew  them  quickly  back 
into  the  shadow — then,  as  if  ashamed  of  her  shame, 
returned  them  to  the  revealing  glare. 

He  took  one  of  them  in  both  of  his.  "Dear 
strong  capable  hand!"  he  murmured,  and  carried  it 
to  his  lips  for  a  lingering  kiss. 

The  hand  rested  passive  in  his  clasp,  but  when  he 
looked  up  her  face  had  gone  white  and  in  her  eyes 
was  again  the  shadow  he  once  had  seen  there,  the 
sadness  unspeakable. 

"Don't!"  he  cried.    "It  hurts  me." 

"Don't— what?" 

"Don't  look  like  that.  As  though  all  the  sorrows 
of  all  women  were  speaking  through  your  eyes." 

Her  lips  curved  in  a  sad  little  smile.  "It  is  noth- 
ing so  poetic  as  that." 

"Ah!  I  know.  It's  the  memory  of  that  time  in 
the  shop.  And  the  hurt  I  gave  you.  How  could 
you  forgive  me — how  could  you  forgive?" 

"I  suppose — I  suppose,  because  I  couldn't 
help  it." 

He  leaned  forward  and  drew  her  to  him.  He 
kissed  her  again  and  again.  For  a  long  minute  he 
held  her  so,  in  silence.  .  .  .  Insidious  moment, 
throwing  open  the  gate  that  he  might  peer  into  a 


296    THE   AMBITION    OF   MARK   TRUITT 

golden  realm  such  as  even  this  Joseph  had  never 
dreamed ! 

"You  haven't  said  it,"  he  broke  the  silence. 

"That  I  love  you?    Do  I  need—" 

"No."  He  kissed  her  again.  "Only  I  can't  quite 
believe  it  yet.  It's  worth  going  through  all  the  trials 
and  disappointments  and  ugliness — to  have  this 
hour." 

Much  later — it  did  not  seem  long — he  asked, 
"Kazia,  when  will  you  marry  me?" 

She  did  not  answer  for  a  long  while.  Then  she 
gently  pushed  him  away  and  spoke,  slowly,  as 
though  all  her  strength  were  needed  to  force  out 
each  word. 

"I  can  not  marry  you." 

"You  can  not — "    He  stared  at  her,  stunned. 

She  shook  her  head,  mute. 

"But  why?    You  are  free." 

"I  am  free — under  the  law.    But  I  can  not" 

"You  love  me,  and  yet — " 

"I  can  not." 

"But  why?"  he  persisted.  "You  must  have  some 
reason."  Then  he  aroused  himself.  "Though  you 
may  just  as  well  forget  it.  Do  you  think,"  he  cried, 
"I've  found  a  real  enduring  love  only  to  let  it  go?" 

"I  have  a  reason.  I — "  She  broke  off,  looking 
away.  Her  hands  clasped  tightly  in  her  lap,  un- 
clasped, then  went  out  in  a  little  appealing  gesture 
as  her  eyes  came  back  to  him.  "It  isn't  that  I  don't 
want  to.  I — I  love  you.  But — oh,  can't  you  un- 
derstand? How  could  the  love  endure  the  little 


THE   RED    GLOW  297 

trials  and  frictions,  the  nearness,  the  commonplace- 
ness  of  every-day  life  together?" 

"Ah !  I  wish  you  hadn't  said  that."  He  was  stag- 
gered for  the  moment ;  to  him  her  reason  was  not  an 
empty  one.  But  he  went  on  firmly,  "That  wouldn't 
be  true  with  us.  It's  never  true  where  there  is  a  real 
love  to  smooth  the  way.  And  you  and  I — we  mustn't 
judge  by  our  past,  because  we've  never  found  the 
real  love — until  now." 

"Yes,  it  is  real.    I  think  it  is  real." 

From  her  wistful  voice  he  thought  he  had  shaken 
her.  He  pressed  her  hard.  "Of  course,  it  is.  Then, 
don't  you  see — " 

"No,  if  it  is  real,  then  I  can't — I  daren't — risk 
losing  it.  I  haven't  had  much,  ever,  except  this 
love — I  mustn't  lose  it.  And  you  don't  know — I'm 
not  fine  and  clever  and  cultured,  like — like  the 
women  you've  known.  You'd  see  the  lacks — "  She 
was  becoming  incoherent.  "Oh,  don't  try  to  per- 
suade me.  You  only  make  it  hard.  I've  been  think- 
ing of  this — and  of  when  you'd  come — so  long! 
And  I  know." 

But  he  did  try  to  persuade  her.  And  longing  lent 
him  eloquence,  as  he  pictured  for  her  their  love,  tri- 
umphant over  the  starving  years  of  separation,  tri- 
umphing again  over  the  vexatious  problem  of  daily 
intimacy.  He  caught  her  to  him  once  more,  rain- 
ing kisses  on  her  hair  and  eyes  and  lips,  trying  to 
light  a  flame  that  should  consume  scruple  and  fear. 
She  listened,  her  head  thrown  back,  looking  at  him 
through  half-closed  eyes.  As  he  saw  the  warm 


298     THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK   TRUITT 

light  kindling  under  the  lowered  lids,  he  thought  he 
was  succeeding. 

"You  see!"  he  cried  at  the  end.  "Now  aren't 
you  persuaded?" 

She  could  only  shake  her  head  again. 

Slowly  it  came  to  him  that  she  meant  her  refusal. 
He  released  her  and  drew  back,  so  suddenly  that 
she  swayed  and  almost  fell. 

"Then  it  only  means  that  you  don't  love  me.  If 
you  did,  you  wouldn't  count  the  risk." 

"If  you  must  believe  that,"  she  answered  sadly, 
"you  must.  But  it  isn't  true.  If  I  could  forget  the 
risk,  I  shouldn't  love  you  as  I  do." 

He  laughed  harshly,  and  reaching  for  his  hat, 
turned  toward  the  door.  The  dreamed  love  had 
gone  the  way  of  his  beautiful  philosophy. 

But  at  the  door  he  looked  back.  She  was  standing 
as  he  had  left  her,  pale,  in  her  eyes  both  fear  and  the 
glow  of  the  flame  he  had  lighted.  The  hand,  held 
out  to  him  in  involuntary  gesture,  was  trembling 
visibly. 

"Why— do  you  go?" 

"But  you  said—" 

"I  didn't  say — I  wouldn't  love  you." 

He  laughed  again.    "What  is  love — by  itself?" 

"We  could,"  pitifully  she  put  forth  the  sugges- 
tion, "we  could  be  friends." 

"Friends !  I'm  no  bloodless  poet.  I  want  a  whole 
love." 

Her  hungering  look  was  calling  him,  drawing  him 
across  the  room  to  her.  It  bade  him  take  her.  He 


THE   RED   GLOW  299 

took  her,  wonderingly,  dazed  by  the  seeming  surren- 
der. In  his  clasp  she  seemed  to  find  a  new  courage. 

"Then — then — I  will  give  you  a  whole  love — if 
you  will  take  me  as  I  am." 

Even  his  voracious  passion,  demanding  all,  could 
turn  aside  at  first  from  this  proffered  sacrifice. 

"No,  no !"  he  muttered.  "Not  that,  Kazia !  I've 
hurt  you  enough.  And  it  wouldn't  be  a  whole  love. 
It  couldn't  be  a  lasting  love.  Love  can't  live  except 
in  the  light  of  day." 

"Love,  if  it  is  love,  is  its  own  light." 

"But  the  risk  you  fear!  It  would  be  greater  your 
way." 

"This  is  my  risk,  not  yours."  Her  arms  encircled 
his  neck,  drawing  his  hot  cheek  down  to  hers.  "And 
there  is  no  one  else.  I  am  alone.  No  one  would  be 
hurt.  It  wouldn't — it  couldn't — be  a  bigger  love  if 
given  in  the  world's  way.  And  it  is  all  I  can  have., 
all  I  can  give.  Let  me  have  it  until — "  She  ended 
in  a  gasp  that  was  almost  a  sob. 

She  had  little  need  of  eloquence  or  logic.  The 
way  to  yielding  had  been  paved  when  a  man,  return- 
ing with  a  half -born,  ingenuously  beautiful  philos- 
ophy, had  been  greeted  with  a  cold  unearned  con- 
tempt. Why  not,  since  he  could  not  escape  from  the 
old  groove,  take  the  thing  he  most  wanted  and  as  he 
could  have  it?  ...  He  sensed  a  mystery  in  her 
strange  refusal — a  mystery  he  feared  to  probe,  lest 
it  present  a  dilemma  before  which  his  courage  must 
fail.  .  .  .  And  in  him,  too,  had  been  lighted  a 
flame,  consuming  scruple  and  fear  but  not  madness. 


300     THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK   TRUITT 

"Why  not?  .  .  .  But  there  shall  be  no  un- 
til! ..." 

Around  them  the  city  panted,  to  exist,  to  conquer, 
to  play,  to  love,  according  to  the  primitive  law  of  its 
various  desire.  Its  myriad  voices  rose  as  always, 
uniting  in  a  distant  throbbing  monotone.  But  the 
two  in  the  little  flat,  if  they  caught  the  murmur, 
heard  it  only  as  music,  the  first  joyous  strains  of  the 
ancient  idyL  And  the  man  at  least,  adrift  once 
more,  forgot  his  lately  learned  lesson,  that  desire 
amuck  must  always  have  a  victim. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

ARCADY 

HE  WENT  to  sleep  that  night,  fearing  the 
awakening.  But  as  he  woke  to  the  summons 
of  the  early  summer  sunshine  filling  his  hotel  room, 
the  dreaded  reaction  did  not  come.  He  could  think 
only  with  tenderness  of  the  woman  who  had  yielded 
all  to  him,  of  the  love  that  did  not  haggle,  with  a 
sort  of  awe — and  the  query,  Could  he  match  it? 

What  he  felt  must  have  been  closely  akin  to  the 
love  he  called  it,  for  he  thought,  too,  of  the  obligation 
he  had  assumed  when  he  took  her  all.  But  with  fear : 
of  the  test  to  which  their  delicious  madness  must 
yet  be  put,  the  furtive  encounters,  the  subterfuges 
they  must  contrive  to  deceive  a  world  only  too  ready 
to  scent  just  their  situation.  It  was  this  fear  that 
inspired  the  plan  to  flee  with  her  to  some  spot  where 
were  no  prying  suspicious  eyes. 

He  arose,  and  going  to  the  telephone,  called  her 
number. 

"Is  it  you?"  He  heard  the  eager  catch  in  the 
low  voice. 

"Who  else  could  it  be  ?"  He  laughed.  "Kazia,  if 
you  should  happen  to  invite  me  to  breakfast — " 

"Oh,  will  you  ?  Come  soon.  I — I  am  always  wait- 
ing for  you.'* 

301 


302    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

But'  as  he  turned  away  from  the  telephone,  some- 
thing caught  in  his  throat.  "Poor  Kazia !"  he  mut- 
tered. "We've  cut  out  a  big  job  for  ourselves." 

He  did  not  have  to  knock  at  her  door.  While  he 
was  still  mounting  the  last  flight  of  stairs,  it  was 
thrown  open  and  she  stood  awaiting  him  in  the  lit- 
tle entrance  hall.  When  he  took  her  in  his  close 
clasp,  she  put  her  hand  to  his  forehead  and  looked 
searchingly  into  his  eyes.  He  was  glad  that  what 
she  saw  there  contented  her. 

"Oh,  I'm  glad,"  she  murmured  from  his  shoulder, 
"I'm  glad  you  called  me  up." 

"Of  course  I  did.  How  long  did  you  think  I 
could  wait  to  hear  your  voice  again  ?" 

"I  was  afraid  you  wouldn't.    If  you  hadn't— 

"But  I  did."    He  kissed  her. 

She  led  the  way  into  the  little  sitting-room,  now 
transformed  into  a  breakfast-room.  The  morning 
radiance,  softened  a  little  by  the  creamy  scrim  cur- 
tains, fell  upon  a  table  all  ready  for  his  coming,  with 
snowy  linen  and  grapefruit  reposing  temptingly  in 
beds  of  ice.  Where  the  lamp  had  stood  the  night  be- 
fore was  now  a  vase  of  cornflowers. 

"All  I  could  find.  But  I  have  hurried!  My 
larder  was  low  and  I  had  to  go  out  foraging." 

"You  shouldn't—" 

"Did  you  think,"  she  laughed  in  tremendous  gai- 
ety, "I  could  let  my  lord  sit  down  to  a  lone  woman's 
breakfast?  And  if  you  don't  eat,  I'll  think  you 
don't  like  it — or  that  you  aren't  happy."  She  be- 
came grave.  "You  are  happy?" 


ARCADY  303 

"I  am  here,"  he  smiled.  "Look  into  your  own 
heart  for  the  answer,  skeptic." 

She  did  not  raise  the  doubt  again.  In  a  mood  that 
was  almost  merry  they  ate  the  breakfast  she  had  pre- 
pared. She  could  not  have  complained  of  his  ap- 
petite; never,  he  assured  her,  was  omelet  so  light, 
toast  so  crisp  and  nicely  browned  or  coffee  so  deli- 
cious. But  she,  fluttering  back  and  forth  between 
table  and  kitchenette  in  ministry  to  his  anticipated 
wants,  barely  touched  the  viands. 

"You  just  nibble,"  he  accused  her.  "You're  so 
busy  waiting  on  me  you  don't  have  time  to  eat." 

"But  you've  let  your  coffee  get  cold,"  she  de- 
fended. "If  I  let  you  drink  it  you'd  never  have 
breakfast  with  me  again." 

"How,"  he  groaned,  "can  I  ever  again  endure  the 
lonely  hotel  breakfast  ?" 

Afterward,  when  the  table  had  been  cleared  and 
the  dishes  washed — he  helping  with  an  awkward- 
ness they  found  very  comic — he  broached  his  plan. 

"Kazia,  have  you  ever  been  in  the  woods  ?" 

"No.  But  I  remember  you  used  to  tell  me  of  the 
hills  you  came  from.  I've  always  wanted  to  see 
them." 

"Oh,  yes,  they're  beautiful.  But  men  live  there. 
I  meant  clear  out  beyond  the  edge  of  things  as  you 
know  them." 

So  he  told  her  of  the  wilderness  he  had  visited : 
of  calm  pellucid  rivers  that  became  noble  lakes  and 
then  rushed  madly  down  narrow  rocky  chutes;  of 
vast  stretches  of  untouched  forest,  pathless  to  all  but 


304     THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

the  wild  things  and  the  lonely,  hardly  less  wild  trap- 
per; of  its  silences  and  ragings.  She  listened 
eagerly. 

"Let's  go  there,  Kazia." 

The  suggestion  left  her  almost  breathless  for  a 
moment.  "Dare  we?" 

"Why  not?" 

"Why  not?"  she  repeated  slowly.  "There  would 
be  nothing  to  fear  up  there,  nothing  to  conceal.  We 
could  stay  until  I  have  to  go  back  to  work." 

"Longer,  if  you  like  it.  You  needn't  think  of 
work." 

"But  I  must,"  she  smiled.  "I  must  live — and  I'm 
not  a  very  rich  woman." 

"But  I—" 

"Hush !"  She  laid  a  silencing  hand  over  his  lips. 
"I  am  giving  myself.  .  .  .  Let  us  go  there.  It 
will  be  something  to  remember.  .  .  ." 

It  was  easily  arranged.  He  dropped  a  note  to 
Henley  which  led  the  latter  to  believe  that  his  counsel 
had  been  taken  and  Mark  had  gone  away  to  let  gos- 
sip run  its  course  and  die.  Kazia  had  no  explana- 
tions to  make.  She  had  but  to  buy  the  simple  outfit 
recommended  by  Mark,  pack  a  small  trunk  and  close 
the  apartment. 

They  met  in  Toronto  and  there  took  a  train  to- 
gether. They  alighted  far  to  the  north  at  a  rude 
little  lumber  town  where  the  smell  of  fresh-sawn 
lumber,  mingled  with  the  fragrance  of  balsam,  swept 
down  a  long  narrow  lake.  After  one  night  in  the 
home  of  a  lumberjack  to  whose  simple  mind  it  never 


ARCADY  305 

occurred  to  question  the  status  of  his  Yankee 
guests,  they  started  up  the  lake  by  canoe  with  a 
guide  who  was  to  leave  them  when  they  had  made  a 
permanent  camp. 

From  beginning  to  end  their  stay  in  the  woods 
was  without  cloud  or  flaw.  For  five  days  they  jour- 
neyed, always  to  the  north.  The  narrow  lake  nar- 
rowed still  further  into  a  smooth  clear  river  that 
wound  in  and  out  among  ever  wooded  hills.  They 
passed  the  region  where  the  cruel  ax  had  swung 
and  scarred;  the  trees  became  bigger,  the  forest 
denser.  Here  and  there  they  came  to  a  rapids  where 
the  canoes  had  to  be  lifted  and  carried. 

Her  almost  awed  perception  of  each  unfolding 
beauty  touched  him.  She  would  spend  hours  in 
silence  watching  the  forest  glide  past.  A  passing 
cloud  mirrored  in  the  river,  a  jumping  bass,  a  star- 
tled deer  quivering  for  the  spring,  the  swoop  of  an 
eagle,  were  wonders  to  be  seen  with  bated  breath. 
White  water  was  a  never  ending  source  of  awe  to 
her.  She  was  first  to  hear  its  distant  booming.  While 
Mark  and  the  guide  made  the  portage,  she  would 
stand  on  the  bank,  careless  of  flying  spray,  gazing 
into  the  cascading  torrent.  Miles  beyond  she  would 
still  be  listening  for  its  dwindling  song.  Hers  was 
no  demonstrative  pleasure;  she  caught  the  silent 
habit  of  the  forest ;  when  she  spoke,  it  was  almost  in 
whispers.  He  remembered  with  a  pang  how  little  of 
beauty  she  must  have  had  in  her  life  and  he  resolved 
that  no  shadow  should  mar  their  flight  into  Arcady. 

They  came  at  length  to  another  lake,  a  curving 


306    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

basin  set  among  hills  that  sloped  steeply  down  to  the 
water's  edge.  On  a  jutting  point  they  found  a  de- 
serted little  cabin,  some  trapper's  winter  abode. 
There  the  journey  ended.  When  the  hut  had  been 
cleaned  out,  they  dismissed  the  guide  with  orders  to 
return  every  three  weeks  with  fresh  supplies.  .  .  . 
They  watched  the  canoe  until  it  disappeared  around 
the  curve  of  the  shore.  Then  they  faced  each  other 
with  shining  eyes  and  clasped  hands.  "At  last!" 
They  were  alone. 

He  cooked  the  supper  that  evening. 

"It's  my  turn  to  play  host.  And  if  you  don't  eat," 
he  mimicked,  "I'll  think  you  don't  like  my  cooking 
— or  that  you  aren't  happy.  I  don't  ask  a  question, 
for  I  read  the  answer  from  my  own  heart." 

She  laughed  breathlessly. 

The  splendor  of  sunset  faded  from  water  and 
sky.  From  their  fire  a  faint  red-gold  shimmer 
crept  out  into  the  lake.  The  breeze  that  had  lapsed 
stirred  again  and  the  hush,  a  forest's  tribute  to  the 
dying  day,  ended.  The  hilltops  opposite,  the  last  to 
resign  the  light,  became  a  vague  black  mass  against 
the  starry  vault. 

From  the  woods  behind  them  rose  a  wild  un- 
earthly scream.  She  started  and  moved  a  little 
closer  to  him. 

"What  is  it?" 

"Only  a  bobcat.  Afraid?"  He  put  a  protecting 
arm  around  her. 

"Not  with  you.  Only  awed.  It's  like  love,  all 
this — so  big  and  so  perfect,  yet  so  indefinite — " 


ARCA'DY 


BO; 


"I  find  love  a  very  definite  thing." 

"To  us  it  is  indefinite,  as  though  part  of  a  plan  so 
vast  we  can't  see  it,  only  feel  it  when  it  grips  us. 
And  so  unconquerable." 

"Men  conquer  the  wilderness." 

"Men  defile  it." 

"And  make  it  fruitful." 

They  were  silent,  both  thinking  of  the  one  tri- 
umphant fruition  denied  their  love. 

"Yes,"  she  whispered,  after  a  little.  "But  love 
has  many  fruits.  If  it  is  forbidden  to  create  new 
life,  it  can  at  least  make  fine  and  splendid  the  life 
that  is.  — Only  love  isn't  a  philosophy.  It  is  you." 

She  turned  her  face  to  him.  And  from  what  the 
firelight  revealed  in  her  eyes  he  had  to  look  away, 
startled  and  humbled. 

"A  man,"  he  thought,  "would  have  to  be  a  god 
to  deserve  this." 

But,  being  only  a  man,  he  crushed  her  to  him  in  a 
very  abandon  of  love-making. 

Mindful  of  his  resolve,  he  planned  their  days 
carefully,  thinking  only  that  they  might  be  perfect 
for  her.  When  he  awoke  he  left  her  side  so  quietly 
as  not  to  disturb  her  and  pushed  out  in  his  canoe, 
as  did  his  primitive  fathers,  to  catch  their  breakfast. 
When  he  returned  she  was  always  awaiting  him,  hot 
fire  ready  for  his  catch.  He  taught  her  to  swim,  to 
become  adept  with  the  paddle,  and  imparted  to  her 
his  considerable  store  of  woodcraft.  He  played 
boyish  pranks  on  her,  that  she  might  through  laugh- 
ter escape  for  a  little  from  intensity.  There  was  the 


308    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

daily  exploration  either  into  the  forest,  where  she 
could  easily  have  outstripped  his  halting  pace,  or  up 
one  of  the  many  streams  that  fed  the  lake.  He 
sought  to  reveal  each  day  some  new  mystery  of 
the  wilderness,  and  he  watched  over  her  jealously, 
lest  some  mischance  overtake  her.  Best  of  all  were 
the  evenings  when  after  supper  they  flung  healthily 
tired  bodies  on  the  ground  beside  the  fire  and  spun 
poetic  philosophies  of  love — quite  absurd,  of  course; 
in  the  cities  they  would  never  have  found  voice. 

It  was  an  unceasing  wonder  to  him  how  she 
blended  with  her  new  surroundings.  It  seemed  im- 
possible that  the  splendid  figure  that  moved  so 
lightly  and  freely,  the  firm  browned  skin  of  face  and 
neck  and  arms,  the  quick  fearless  eyes,  were  of  a 
woman  brought  up  in  the  cramping  dwarfing  city. 
He  had  often  to  remind  himself  that  she  was  but  one 
generation  removed  from  peasants  who,  in  their 
turn,  were  but  little  removed  from  the  wild  estate. 

But  peasant  ancestry  could  not  explain  her  cour- 
age and  prodigality  in  love.  For  love — such  as  they 
had  never  known,  could  never  know  again,  in  the 
haunts  of  men — remained  to  both  of  them  the  su- 
preme miracle  of  the  wilderness.  They  loved  as  do 
the  wild  things,  simply,  directly,  wholly  and  with- 
out satiety.  They  talked  in  the  sum  but  little ;  often 
miles  passed  in  silence  unbroken  save  by  the  snap- 
ping of  twigs  underfoot  or  the  lapping  of  water 
against  their  canoe,  with  no  sign  but  a  smile  ex- 
changed. Yet  the  sense  of  companionship,  of  inti- 
mate communion  beyond  words,  was  never  dis- 


ARCADY  309 

turbed.  When  passion  blazed,  there  was  none  of 
the  madness  of  guilty  lust,  no  thought  of  laws  de- 
fied. Each  day  was  a  progression  in  happiness — a 
happiness  so  intense  and  solemn  as  to  be  almost  akin 
to  pain.  And  when  they  lay  down  for  the  night  she 
slept  with  his  arm  for  her  pillow. 

The  man  was  swept  out  of  himself,  out  of  his 
groove  of  thought,  as  never  before.  His  struggles 
and  victories  and  disappointments  receded;  they 
seemed  part  of  another  existence.  If  he  thought  of 
them  briefly  at  all,  it  was  but  as  a  price  well  paid  for 
his  freedom.  He  did  not  guess  that  the  habit  of 
thinking  minutely  for  her  happiness  was  slowly  pry- 
ing loose  other  and  firmly  fixed  habits. 

Two  moons  waxed  and  waned.  The  guide  came 
with  supplies,  and  again  a  second  time.  On  his  third 
appearance,  the  time  set  for  their  departure,  Mark 
without  consulting  Kazia  sent  him  back.  She  did 
not  seem  to  notice  the  change  in  plan. 

On  the  day  when  the  guide  should  have  returned 
again,  he  did  not  come.  That  evening  a  storm  arose, 
such  as  rarely  visits  even  those  northern  woods. 
Mark  and  Kazia  were  out  on  the  lake  for  a  lazy 
after-supper  paddle,  watching  the  masses  of  black 
clouds  gather  over  the  hills  at  the  head  of  the  lake. 
There  was  a  rumble  of  distant  thunder. 

Suddenly,  overtaking  the  mountainous  vapor,  ap- 
peared a  lower  plane  of  clouds,  flying  before  a  wind 
that  struck  the  water  and  sent  a  line  of  white  churn- 
ing down  the  lake.  They  were  not  far  out,  but 
though  they  paddled  swiftly,  their  light  craft  was 


3io    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

tossing  like  a  cork  before  they  reached  shore.  They 
made  their  landing,  dragged  the  canoe  to  safety  and 
fled  to  the  cabin  just  as  a  wall  of  green  and  darkness 
swept  down  upon  them. 

The  darkness  was  but  momentary.  With  the  rain 
came  lightning,  playing  incessantly,  revealing  the 
swaying  forest.  Crack  and  roll  of  thunder,  punctu- 
ated by  the  crash  of  rent  trees,  drowned  the  strident 
wind  and  lashing  waves.  Once  a  forked  flame  leaped 
down  a  giant  spruce  near  by,  with  a  report  that 
shook  even  the  stout  cabin.  In  the  doorway,  sitting 
close  together,  they  watched  the  charge  of  the  storm, 
awed  by  this  mood  of  their  wilderness. 

The  fury  was  soon  spent.  The  storm  passed  be- 
yond the  lake.  The  thunder  became  a  low  dimin- 
ishing growl.  The  mass  of  clouds  broke  into  flying 
streamers,  stragglers  fallen  out  of  the  battle.  The 
stragglers  passed.  The  young  moon  laid  a  pallid 
sheen  over  drenched  forest  and  restless  lake.  The 
wind  died  down  to  a  gentle  crooning  breeze.  Still 
they  watched,  in  one  of  their  long  silences. 

She  sighed  and  stirred,  looking  up  at  him.  "I 
wonder — "  She  paused. 

"Yes?" 

"Have  I  hurt  you?" 

"Hurt  me?" 

"By  loving  you.     By  coming  here." 

"No,"  he  cried.  "How  could  any  one  be  harmed 
by  a  perfect  love?  And  it  has  been  perfect.  I  can 
never  forget.  Where  did  you  get  the  will  to  give — • 
to  give  all?" 


ARC  AD  Y  311 

"From  you." 

"No !  I  never  had  it.  Once  I  thought  I  had  found 
it,  but  at  the  first  puff  of  ill  wind  it  died." 

"Nor  had  I,  except  for  you.  .  .  .  But  now  I 
can  love  all  the  world.  That  is  why,  I  think,  we 
have  not  sinned." 

He  did  not  laugh  at  her.  His  heart  ached  with  a 
deep  poignant  tenderness  for  her.  They  were  silent 
again.  .  .  .  But  after  a  time  drowsiness  overcame 
him  and  he  slept. 

She  did  not  sleep.  Until  morning  she  kept  her 
vigil  beside  him.  Sometimes  she  would  lean  over 
and  touch  his  outflung  hand.  .  .  . 

When  he  awoke  the  sun  was  well  up  over  the  hills. 
Kazia  was  standing  in  the  doorway,  looking  down 
the  lake.  She  heard  him  stir  and  turned.  He  saw 
her  eyes. 

"I  believe  you  haven't  slept  at  all !" 

She  did  not  answer  that,  but  smiled,  pointing. 

"The  guide  is  coming.  Let  us  hurry.  It  is  time 
for  us  to  go." 

"No !"    He  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"Please,"  she  put  out  an  appealing  hand,  "let  us 
not  talk  of  it,  but  hurry.  We  must  go.  I've  thought 
it  out,  and  it  is  best." 

They  breakfasted  hurriedly  and  began  the  brief 
preparations  to  leave,  putting  the  cabin  in  order  and 
stowing  into  the  canoes  the  little  they  would  need 
on  the  trip  down  the  river.  They  were  soon  ready. 

They  were  about  to  embark  when  Kazia,  without 
explanation,  turned  and  went  back  to  the  cabin. 


312    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

Many  minutes  passed  and  she  did  not  reappear. 
Then  Mark  followed  her.  He  found  her  lying  prone 
on  the  pile  of  pine  boughs  that  had  been  their  couch, 
face  buried  in  her  arms.  Harsh  dry  sobs  shook  her. 

With  a  cry  he  dropped  to  his  knees  beside  her, 
gently  stroking  her  hair,  trying  to  soothe  her  grief. 
He  pleaded  with  her  to  stay. 

Soon  she  had  regained  control.  She  sat  up,  fac- 
ing him. 

"How  can  you  think  of  going?  Back  there  we 
won't  find  it  as  it  has  been  here." 

"We  must,"  she  answered.  "And  now,  while  it's 
still  perfect.  It  has  been  that — not  a  thing  to  re- 
gret. I've  crowded  into  two  months  happiness 
enough  for  a  lifetime.  If  I  must  pay  for  it,  I  am 
willing.  .  .  .  And  you  have  given  it  to  me.  Do 
you  think  I  haven't  seen  how  you've  watched  over 
me,  thought  only  of  me,  to  make  it  perfect  for  me? 
I  can  never  forget  that.  And  maybe,  some  day,  I 
shall  have  the  chance  to  repay  you.  I  pray  that  I 
may  have  the  chance." 

"It  is  I  who  will  have  to  repay  you.  But  why 
leave  such  happiness?  Let  us  stay  here,  where  love 
is  free  and  clean  and  strong." 

"If  we  only  could !  But  we  must  go.  Because  it 
wouldn't  stay  perfect.  There  are  storms  even  in  the 
wilderness.  A  time  would  come — you  are  a  man — • 
when  love  wouldn't  be  enough.  You  would  begin 
to  want  other  men.  You  would  chafe  against  the 
loneliness  and  inaction.  We  would  go  gladly  then 
and  we  could  look  back  on  this  only  as  a  dream  that 


ARCADY  313 

failed.  But  now — oh,  I  shall  have  something  to  re- 
member! And  you  will  have  something  to  remem- 
ber. .  .  .  See!  You  know  I'm  right.  .  .  . 
Come." 

It  was  she  who  led  the  way  out  of  the  cabin  and 
down  to  the  water.  They  stepped  into  the  canoes 
and  began  to  paddle  steadily  down  the  lake.  She  did 
not  lose  a  stroke,  nor  once  look  back. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THE   CLEFT   STICK 

THE  cloudless  idyl  was  ended.  The  need  of 
deceits,  the  fears,  had  begun.  In  fact,  they  be- 
gan before  our  lovers  had  quite  readjusted  them- 
selves to  the  changed  surroundings. 

In  Canada's  capital,  thinking  themselves  still  safe, 
Mark  had  persuaded  Kazia  to  stay  over  two  days, 
that  they  might  have  one  last  uninterrupted  pe- 
riod together.  It  was  a  mistake,  an  anticlimax.  The 
freedom  and  naturalness  of  the  forest  days  were 
gone;  in  their  stead  came  self-consciousness  and  re- 
pression. Speeches  that  had  spoken  of  themselves 
now  seemed  forced  and  stilted.  And  the  lovers 
learned  that,  though  the  world  is  very  wide,  on  its 
beaten  paths  men  are  never  free. 

They  were  at  breakfast  when,  glancing  up,  Mark 
espied  a  familiar  figure  at  the  doorway  of  the  hotel 
dining-room:  a  figure  of  courtly  and  noble  mien; 
moving  with  slow  thoughtful  stride  and  head 
slightly  bent,  as  though,  even  amid  the  common- 
place functions  of  life,  his  mind  never  ceased  to 
dwell  on  momentous  philanthropic  projects;  and 
withal  modestly  unaware  of  the  whisper  that  ran 
over  the  room  or  of  the  many  necks  craned  in  his 


THE    CLEFT    STICK  315 

direction.  An  obsequious  captain  of  waiters  led 
him  down  the  room,  and  by  fateful  chance,  toward 
the  table  where  sat  Mark  and  Kazia.  Mark  regarded 
him  in  that  fascination  which  a  dangerous  object 
often  has  for  its  victim. 

Now  it  may  be  that  the  philanthropist  was  not 
quite  so  unaware  as  he  seemed  of  the  interest  evoked 
by  his  entrance,  for  a  pair  of  furtively  roving  eyes 
alighted  upon  Mark.  He  stopped. 

"Can  it  be — of  course,  it  is  Truitt.  This  is  an 
unexpected  pleasure."  He  extended  a  genial  hand. 

Mark  took  it  mechanically.  "How  are  you,  Mr. 
Quinby?"  he  muttered  out  of  his  daze. 

"I  suppose  I  am  well."  Jeremiah  Quinby  smiled 
benignantly.  "A  busy  life  leaves  little  time  to  con- 
sider the  state  of  one's  health.  You  are  looking  bet- 
ter than  I  have  ever  seen  you." 

"I'm  better  than  I've  ever  been." 

There  was  a  pause  during  which  Quinby  glanced 
tentatively  at  Kazia. 

"Ah!  Perhaps  I  am  intruding?"  Quinby  smiled 
humorously,  as  one  who  knows  his  welcome  any- 
where is  assured. 

Mark  brought  his  whirling  thoughts  to  a  stop. 
"No,  certainly  not.  Mrs.  Whiting — "  He  per- 
formed an  introduction.  Quinby's  bow  was  impres- 
sive. 

"I  see  you  have  just  begun.  Perhaps — "  He 
paused  again,  suggestively. 

"You  will  join  us?    Mrs.  Whiting,  I'm  sure — " 

Kazia  nodded  and  smiled  composedly. 


316    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

"This  is  kind,  indeed.  Though  I  should  not," 
Quinby  bowed  again  to  Kazia,  "blame  Truitt  for 
being  selfish."  He  took  the  chair  held  out  for  him 
by  the  waiter,  glancing  from  Mark's  sun-browned 
face  to  Kazia's.  "I  see  you  have  both  been  out 
under  the  sun.  Your  party — " 

"Has  just  separated.  Mrs.  Whiting  is  to  let  me — 
rather  informally,  to  be  sure — convoy  her  home." 

"And  what  of  it,  since  no  one  is  the  wiser?  The 
conventions,"  Quinby  wittily  accepted  the  explana- 
tion, "are  only  for  public  consumption,  though  I — - 
being  in  the  public  eye,  so  to  speak — may  rarely 
ignore  them.  So  you,  too,  are  from  our  city,  Mrs. 
Whiting?" 

Kazia  admitted  it. 

"Ah !  I  wish  I  had  known  last  night  that  you  were 
here.  The  governor-general — "  The  phrase  rolled 
lingeringly  on  his  lips.  "The  governor-general 
gave  a  reception.  You  would  have  been  pleased,  I 
am  sure,  to  see  how  our  city,  in  my  person,  was 
honored." 

"I'm  very  sure  of  it.    Please  tell  us  about  it." 

Quinby  told  them  about  it,  with  a  wealth  of  detail. 
The  governor-general  would  have  been  moved, 
could  he  have  heard  how  deeply  his  attentions  were 
appreciated  by  the  philanthropist,  who  insisted  on 
ascribing  them,  not  to  any  qualities  that  lay  in  him- 
self, but  to  his  vicarious  importance  as  representa- 
tive of  the  great  industrial  center  and  high  priest  of 
paleontology.  Mark  and  Kazia  listened,  which  was 


THE    CLEFT    STICK  317 

all  that  was  necessary — perhaps  all  that  was  possible 
— when  Quinby  was  present  and  launched  upon  that 
fertile  topic,  Quinby. 

But  under  cover  of  his  monologue  Quinby  was 
shrewdly  taking  stock  of  his  hearers  and  their  situa- 
tion ;  he  had  not  missed  that  first  moment  of  betray- 
ing confusion.  The  woman,  to  Quinby's  deep  ad- 
miration, was  splendidly  at  ease,  smiling  at  his  quips, 
politely  attentive  to  his  explanations  and  not  at  all 
in  awe  of  him,  though  her  hands  showed  him  that 
hers  was  not  the  world  of  the  Quinbys.  This  did 
not  dull  the  piquancy  of  her  physical  charms,  of 
which  he  was  pleasantly  sensible.  The  man,  too, 
acted  well,  but  he  could  not  quite  quench  the  burn- 
ing fury  in  his  eyes.  Suspicion,  guided  by  instinct, 
settled  into  conviction. 

And  the  event  matched  Quinby's  need.  For  in 
the  very  midday  of  his  triumph,  when  the  brilliancy 
and  daring  of  his  achievements  promised  to  eclipse 
his  better  fortified  but  less  original  rival  in  benefi- 
cence, a  cloud  no  bigger  than  a  man's  hand  had 
crept  above  the  horizon.  And  if  that  cloud  grew 
bigger,  not  MacGregor  but  Quinby  himself  might  be 
eclipsed — and,  alas!  forever.  A  crisis,  then,  when 
"harmony"  more  than  ever  was  needed  in  his  forces. 
There  are,  Quinby  gratefully  thought,  more  ways 
than  one  of  insuring  harmony.  He  felt  of  his  whip 
and  got  ready  to  crack  it. 

During  a  temporary  lull  Kazia,  pleading  some  un- 
finished packing,  made  her  escape.  Quinby's  eyes 


followed  her  admiringly  to  the  door,  then  bent  upon 
Mark  a  look  in  which  reproof  and  a  certain  ponder- 
ous waggishness  struggled  for  the  upper  hand. 

"Ah !  Truitt !  A  sad  dog,  I  fear." 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Mark  coldly. 

Quinby  was  blandly  skeptical.  "I  find  you,  brown 
as  an  Indian,  at  breakfast  alone  at  a  hotel  with  a 
woman  dusky  as  an  Indian  maiden.  The  party — 
was  it  a  party  of  two,  Truitt?" 

"Mr.  Quinby,"  said  Mark  not  so  coldly,  "your 
tone — !  My  word — " 

"Ah!"  Quinby  waved  a  pacific  hand.  "If  your 
word  is  passed,  that  is  enough.  I  am  happy  to  be- 
lieve it.  Mrs.  Whiting  seems  a  charming  woman. 
A  well  poised  woman !  An  unusual  woman !" 

"Very." 

"You  leave  to-day?" 

"Yes." 

"Then,  since  I  have  your  word  in  the  matter,  I 
feel  safe  in  inviting  you  and  Mrs.  Whiting  to  share 
my  car  as  far  as  Buffalo." 

"Mrs.  Whiting  may  have  a  preference." 

Quinby  received  this  with  the  surprise  of  one 
whose  invitations  partake  of  the  peremptory  quality 
of  royalty's.  "I  hope  she  will  not  prefer  a  stuffy 
Pullman  to  my  car,  which  has  been  praised.  I  should 
be  deeply  hurt  by  a  refusal.  In  fact,"  Mark  looked 
up  quickly,  as  though  he  had  heard  a  warning  crack ! 
overhead,  "I  should  construe  a  refusal  as  evidence — • 
But  let  that  go.  There  are  company  matters  I  wish 


THE    CLEFT    STICK  319 

to  discuss  with  you,  and  this  seems  an  opportune 
occasion." 

The  men  regarded  each  other  steadily  for  a  mo- 
ment. 

"I  shall  present  your  invitation/'  Mark  concluded. 

"With  my  compliments,"  Quinby  amended.  "Er 
— Truitt,  who  is  Mrs.  Whiting?  The  name  is  not 
familiar." 

"I'm  sure  you  never  heard  of  her.  She's  a  trained 
nurse — a  very  successful  one,  I  believe.  I'll  let  you 
know  her  answer." 

They  rose  and  Mark  had  the  enviable  distinction 
of  marching  with  Jeremiah  Quinby  through  the  long 
dining-room,  where  by  this  time  the  whisper  of  the 
great  philanthropist's  presence  had  been  happily 
confirmed. 

"Well,"  said  Mark  grimly,  when  he  had  found 
Kazia  in  their  rooms,  "you  played  audience  to  good 
purpose.  Quinby  has  just  informed  me,  with  ex- 
clamation points,  that  you  are  a  charming  woman, 
a  well  poised  woman,  an  unusual  woman." 

She  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief.  "Then  he  doesn't 
suspect  ?" 

"He's  so  sure  of  the  truth  that  he  wouldn't  be- 
lieve his  own  testimony  to  the  contrary." 

"What  can  we  do?" 

"Exactly  nothing  but  accept  his  invitation  to 
travel  in  his  car  to  Buffalo — and  trust  to  luck.  Flat- 
tery and  submissiveness — he  would  call  them  har- 
mony— are  the  way  into  Quinby's  good  graces." 


320    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

He  went  to  a  window,  staring  f  rowningly  out  into 
the  street  for  a  minute  before  he  turned  to  her  again. 

"Damn  it,  Kazia !"  he  exclaimed  angrily.  "I  was 
a  fool  to  insist  on  staying  over  here." 

She  winced  under  his  tone.    "So  soon !" 

"Oh,  forgive  me,  Kazia."  He  went  remorsefully 
to  her  side.  "I'm  thinking  only  of  the  possible  pickle 
I  may  have  got  you  into." 

"You  would  be  in  it,  too." 

"But  I  couldn't  be  hurt.  Discovery  would  change 
no  one's  opinion  of  me.  Remember,  you  love  a  man 
on  whom  gossip  has  laid  its  dirty  paw." 

"And  I've  helped  to  give  gossip  its  justification," 
she  said  slowly.  "I'm  sorry." 

"Don't!  Don't  be  so  utterly  perfect.  What  is 
gossip's  justification  compared  with  you?" 

"It  is  nothing,  isn't  it?" 

"Less  than  that." 

"And  you  wouldn't — you  couldn't  regret  our  two 
months,  even — even  if  we  were  found  out?" 

"Only  for  your  sake,  dear.  Nevertheless,  we 
must  do  our  best  to  throw  sand  in  Quinby's  eyes." 

She  sighed. 

But  Quinby,  when  the  journey  had  begun,  made 
no  reference  to  that  party  in  the  woods.  His  engag- 
ing manners — never,  said  the  envious,  so  pro- 
nounced as  in  the  presence  of  a  pretty  woman — were 
displayed  in  their  perfection.  Even  Mark's  fears 
were  lulled. 

At  first  the  philanthropist  gave  himself  almost 
wholly  to  Kazia.  He  showed  her  the  splendors  of 


THE    CLEFT    STICK  321 

his  car,  from  the  little  kitchen,  where  her  expert  ad- 
miration brought  a  grin  even  to  the  pudgy  face  of 
the  Japanese  cook,  unto  the  plaster  cast  of  the 
icthyosaurus  Quinbyi  conspicuously  placed  at  one 
side  of  the  library  section. 

"A  gift  from  the  curator  and  his  assistants  at  our 
city's  institute,"  he  explained.  "The  icthyosaurus 
Quinbyi  was  a  notable  discovery.  Are  you  interest- 
ed in  paleontology,  Mrs.  Whiting?" 

"I'm  afraid,"  she  smiled,  "I  barely  know  the 
meaning  of  the  word.  Is  that  a  shameful  confes- 
sion?" 

"Not  now,"  Quinby  generously  replied.  "But  it 
is  my  hope  that  the  next  generation  shall  have  no 
excuse  for  ignorance." 

Thereupon  the  philanthropist,  again  in  detail,  set 
forth  for  Kazia's  entertainment  his  plans  and  the 
blessings  that  should  flow  when  humanity  had  been 
well  instructed  in  paleontology.  He  read  in  her  un- 
smiling eyes  the  serious  respectful  appreciation  his 
soul  craved.  Mark,  taking  no  part  in  the  conversa- 
tion, sipped  his  White  Rock  and  puffed  at  his  pane- 
tela,  which  mild  refreshment  he  had  accepted  at  the 
hand  of  the  attentive  Jap. 

"There  are  many,  Mrs.  Whiting,"  Quinby  re- 
marked once,  in  the  accents  of  resignation,  "who 
profess  to  ridicule  my  project.  They  see  nothing  of 
value  in  the  noble  science  of  paleontology.  To  delve 
into  the  mysteries  of  the  prehistoric  past,  to  extract 
from  the  earth  the  secrets  she  has  hidden  beneath 
mountain  and  plain,  to  build  temples  from  which 


322    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

this  knowledge  shall  be  spread  abroad — this  means 
nothing  to  them.  I  know  it!  The  pioneer,  I  am 
well  aware,  looks  in  vain  for  recognition.  He  must 
seek  his  reward  in  the  consciousness  of  the  good 
begun,  not  in  the  plaudits  of  his  fellows.  Although 
some  less  backward  and — in  justice  to  paleontology 
I  must  say  it — less  envious  have  not  been  niggardly 
with  praise.  That,  Mrs.  Whiting,  is  what  it  means 
to  be  in  the  grip  of  a  big  idea." 

"A  big  idea!" 

Mark  started  inwardly.  The  phrase  had  an  oddly 
familiar  ring.  .  .  .  Then  memory  revived  a  scene 
long  forgotten :  a  faded  preacher,  for  once  alive,  de- 
claiming of  the  "big  idea"  to  a  youth  about  to  set 
out  on  romantic  quest  of  fortune. 

The  youth  had  won  his  fortune,  as  he  had  never 
dared  to  dream  it.  To  what  end  ? — the  old  question ! 
He  had  reached  the  period  of  life  when  a  man's 
powers  are  at  their  highest.  His  powers,  now  pre- 
served by  a  long  rest  from  the  inroads  of  ill  health, 
had  been  developed  under  the  stimulus  of  necessity 
and  opposition.  They  would  require  an  outlet.  But 
where  ?  To  fall  back  into  the  old  groove — that  was 
impossible;  from  the  heights  of  his  summer's  idyl 
the  old  scramble  seemed  uglier  than  ever,  hopelessly 
repulsive.  To  become  a  dilettante  of  life,  to  potter 
luxuriously  down  into  old  age,  was  equally  impossi- 
ble. Even  secret  passion  for  the  woman  listening 
to  Quinby's  magniloquence  could  not  fill  the  lonely 
void  created  by  idleness ;  he  had  not  long  withstood 
her  decision  to  leave  the  wilderness,  because  he  had 


THE    CLEFT    STICK  323 

known  she  was  right.    ...    He  wished  he  could 
find  a  big  idea.    .    .    . 

"A  big  work  to  do !  Even  a  big  fight  to  make- 
since  there  is  no  peace.  One  that  would  rouse  all 
my  enthusiasm,  that  would  be  worth  while  for  its 
own  sake — and  fair  and  clean !  .  .  ." 

His  attention  was  recalled  to  Quinby,  who  had 
temporarily  abandoned,  if  not  exhausted  himself  as 
the  subject  of  conversation. 

"Truitt  tells  me,  Mrs.  Whiting,  that  you  are  a 
nurse.  A  beautiful  calling!  A  fitting  sphere  for 
woman — woman,  tender  minister  to  suffering!" 

"And  it  pays,"  Kazia  smiled,  "better  than  most 
woman's  work." 

"But  not  enough.  Have  you  ever  noticed  that 
the  most  important  services  are  always  the  poorest 
paid.  I  have  often  wished,"  Quinby  sighed,  "that  it 
lay  in  my  power  to  give  every  deserving  man  and 
woman  the  just  reward  earned  by  their  service." 

"Ah !"  breathed  Kazia,  "that  would  be  something 
to  do." 

"And  to  surround  them  with  the  beauties  and 
comforts  that  make  life  worth  while,"  Quinby  con- 
tinued. "It  has  been  a  dream  of  mine  some  day  to 
build  a  new  city  in  the  wilderness,  perfectly  planned 
for  beauty  and  health,  with  model  plants.  Rearing 
a  strong  happy  race  of  steel-makers,  sons  taking 
up  the  burdens  laid  down  by  the  fathers,  secure  in 
the  knowledge  that  over  them  stands  one  ever  watch- 
ful for  their  welfare,  their  interests  his,  his  interest 
theirs." 


324    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

"Do  you/'  Mark  inquired,  "refer  to  the  Al- 
mighty?" 

"You  jest."  Quinby  shook  his  head  in  sad  re- 
proof. "So  few,  Mrs.  Whiting,  have  received  into 
themselves  the  spirit  of  philanthropy,  which  dreams 
and  dares  where  materialism  falters.  To  Truitt,  of 
course,  such  a  project  would  never  appeal." 

"But  I'm  not  so  sure,"  Mark  answered  slowly. 
"It  would  be  a  big  work  to  do.  And  I  know  just  the 
spot  for  the  new  city." 

Strange  the  sources  of  inspiration! 

Quinby  gazed  raptly  out  of  the  window,  as  though 
he  already  beheld  the  happy  city  rising.  Then  he 
returned  to  Mark,  with  a  gesture  of  infinite  regret. 
"I  fear  it  is  an  impossible  dream.  Philanthropy,  Tru- 
itt, must  always  be  a  science.  And  the  first  thing 
science  must  learn  is  its  own  limitations." 

He  bent  a  benignant  smile  on  Kazia.  "But,  Mrs. 
Whiting,  some  such  little  justices  do  lie  in  our  power. 
You  must  leave  me  an  address.  As  it  happens,  I  am 
a  trustee,  and  it  may  be,  an  influence  in  the  Todd 
Hospital.  Surely  the  profession  of  healing  offers  a 
woman  a  larger — and  a  better  paid — field  than  mere 
individual  nursing?" 

"To  those  who  are  fitted." 

"You  are  modest,  of  course.  But  I  am  sure  I 
have  not  judged  you  too  generously." 

"But  you  have  known  me — " 
"My  judgments  are  quickly  made  up.     Truitt,  I 
believe,  will  bear  witness  that  they  are  usually  right 


THE    CLEFT    STICK  325 

Of  all  the  young  men  I  have  gathered  around  me  as 
my  lieutenants  not  one  has  been  a  mistaken  choice. 
And  my  interest,  once  aroused,"  he  bowed  gracious- 
ly to  Kazia,  "must — it  must — have  tangible  results. 
I  will  not  forget  this  pleasant  day,  Mrs.  Whiting, 
and  you,  I  think,  will  have  cause  to  remember  it.'* 

"You  are  very  good — "  began  Kazia. 

But  Quinby  waved  her  to  silence.  "Not  now. 
Some  day  we  may  meet  again.  Then  perhaps  you 
will  have  some  little  reason  to  thank  me.  And  now 
let  me  make  you  comfortable,  while  Truitt  and  I 
discuss  dull  business." 

He  led  Kazia  to  a  big  cushioned  chair  at  the 
observation  end  of  the  car,  had  the  Jap  bring  maga- 
zines and  the  latest  novel. 

"Is  there  nothing  else  you  want?" 

"Nothing,  thank  you." 

"If  you  should  think  of  something,  this,"  he 
pointed  to  a  button,  "is  our  modern  substitute  for 
Aladdin's  lamp." 

She  lay  back  in  the  chair,  smiling  her  thanks  up  to 
him,  as  frankly  as  if  she  had  not  a  suspected  secret 
to  brazen  out.  The  philanthropist  smiled  back — and 
the  light  in  his  eyes,  as  they  swept  the  figure  beneath 
them,  was  not  philanthropy. 

His  smile  became  quizzical.  He  leaned  over  and 
patted  her  hand.  "You  are  a  plucky  woman,  my 
dear.  I  have  a  short  memory — sometimes." 

He  went  back  to  Mark. 

"Truitt,"  he  began,  "does  your  recovered  health 
mean  that  you  arc  going  back  into  harness  ?" 


326    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

"I  don't  know,"  Mark  answered  shortly.  He  had 
witnessed  the  tableau  just  described. 

"You  must  get  back.  You  are  needed.  Have  you 
kept  track  of  our  labor  situation?" 

"No." 

Quinby  sketched  that  situation,  with  a  terseness 
of  which  Mark  had  not  believed  him  capable. 

"You  see,"  he  concluded,  "it  is  critical.  I  can  not 
understand,"  he  exclaimed  strongly,  "the  present 
attitude  of  labor.  It  is  utterly  lacking  in  sense  of 
gratitude,  of  loyalty.  I  like  to  think  of  the  mills 
as  the  means  to  life  for  thousands  of  men.  And  it 
pains  me  to  see  them  become  hostile  and  grasping. 
What  have  they  to  complain  of?" 

"Probably  they  feel  entitled  to  a  little  more  than 
a  bare  existence." 

"Didn't  we  grant  the  sliding  scale  three  years 
ago?" 

"Perhaps,"  Mark  returned  dryly,  "they  guess 
from  the  number  of  temples  to  paleontology  in  pros- 
pect that  the  scale  could  fairly  be  raised.  It  could." 

"I  don't  hold  with  you." 

"What  does  Henley  say?" 

"What  would  Henley  say  but,  Fight.  He  is  mad 
— utterly  mad  in  his  hatred  of  unions." 

"Quite  mad." 

"In  this  case  he  is  right.  I  have  not  deserved 
to  be  compelled  to  stand  and  deliver.  I  have  always 
been  fair  to  labor.  I  have  been  willing  to  compro- 
mise our  differences,  to  make  concessions.  I  have 
felt  toward  them  as  a  father  to  his  children.  They 


THE    CLEFT    STICK  327 

have  now  no  just  cause  to  organize  to  fight  me. 
And  my  plans  for  the  future  do  not  admit  of  a 
shrinkage  in  income  from  raised  scales  or  costly 
strikes.  Oh!"  Quinby's  hands  clenched  in  the 
stress  of  emotion.  "If  I  were  but  as  rich  as  Mac- 
Gregor !  He  has  been  well  served  by  the  men  he  has 
made."  Quinby,  it  seemed,  had  forgotten  his  late 
tribute  to  his  young  lieutenants. 

"Who  made  him,"  Mark  corrected. 

"No,"  contradicted  Quinby  sternly.  "To  whom 
he  gave  opportunity.  As  I  have  given  it  to  my  part- 
ners. And  never  have  I  been  so  ill  served  as  in  the 
handling  of  this  dispute."  He  paused  to  let  the  truth 
of  this  disservice  sink  into  Mark's  heart. 

"This  is  where  I  need  you.  Henley  is  the  last 
man  in  the  world  for  such  a  matter.  It  is  not  a 
bully's  task.  Truitt,  I  want  you  to  take  charge  of 
the  situation,  stand  between  Henley  and  the  men, 
and  settle  it." 

"Humph!  Easier  ordered  than  done.  I  don't 
hanker  for  the  job,  Mr.  Quinby." 

"You  are  the  only  one  of  the  lot  who  can  meet 
labor  in  a  human  plausible  manner.  It  was  you,  I  be- 
lieve, who  saved  us  from  a  strike  three  years  ago — I 
have  never  voiced  my  appreciation  of  that,  but  I  do 
so  now.  You  can  do  it.  And  you  owe  it  to  me  to  try. 
Be  tactful,  be  firm  but  gentle.  Suaviter  in  modo  sed 
fortiter  in  re.  Make  nominal  concessions.  Even  go 
a  little  farther  than  that.  But,  Truitt,  above  all 
things  there  must  be  no  strike."  He  leaned  forward 
and  put  a  hand  impressively  on  Mark's  knee. 


328    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

"There  must  be  no  strike,"  he  repeated.  "I  am  a 
lover  of  humanity.  I  think  I  may  even  say  I  have 
proved  that.  It  shocks  me  to  think  of  the  misery 
that  would  follow  if  the  men  were  let  to  do  so  un- 
grateful, so  dangerous  a  thing." 

The  philanthropist  rose,  to  conceal  his  rising  emo- 
tion. Hands  clasped  behind  him,  he  paced  half  the 
length  of  the  car  and  back.  He  came  to  a  halt  again 
beside  Mark. 

"Truitt — "  There  was  a  hint  of  nervous  haste  in 
the  mellifluous  voice.  "Truitt,  a  strike  would  place 
me  in  a  false  position.  I  am  known  to  have  uttered 
publicly  certain  views  on  labor's  rights.  I  still  hold 
firmly  to  those  views — in  the  abstract.  I  also  hold 
that  they  do  not  apply  to  this  case.  But  the  world 
would  not  understand  that.  It  would  say — "  He 
paused  again,  leaving  Mark  to  imagine  what  the 
cruel  cynical  world  would  say. 

Mark  thought  he  could  imagine  it. 

"Truitt!"  Quinby  brought  his  hands  in  a  slow 
splendid  gesture  down  on  Mark's  shoulders.  "I 
place  myself  in  your  hands.  My  reputation  is  dear 
to  me.  Not  for  my  own  sake,  but  because  of  the 
work  to  which  I  have  pledged  my  life." 

Mark  turned  a  frowning  gaze  out  of  the  window. 
Ten  miles  or  more  sped  by  before  he  looked  at  the 
waiting  Quinby. 

"I'll  try  it." 

"I  knew  you  would."  Quinby  smiled  once  more. 
"Succeed  and  you  will  find  me  not  ungrateful.  Hen- 


THE    CLEFT    STICK  329 

ley,  I  believe,  is  thinking  of  retiring — "  Their  eyes 
met. 

"Does  Henley  know  it?" 

Quinby  ignored  the  question.  "He  himself  has 
said  you  are  the  only  man  of  the  broad  vision 
and—" 

"It  isn't  done  yet,"  Mark  interrupted.  "But  if  I 
pull  it  through,  I'd  rather  you'd  let  me  build  that 
new  city."  He  laughed  queerly.  "Strange  as  it 
may  seem,  the  notion  appeals." 

"But  that,  I  fear,  is  out  of  the  question."  Quinby 
shook  his  head  sadly.  "A  beautiful  dream  but — 
paleontology  has  claimed  me." 

They  left  the  matter  of  reward  for  future  deter- 
mination. 

At  Buffalo  they  left  Quinby,  whose  car  was  at- 
tached to  a  New  York  train.  Their  own  train  was 
soon  ready.  When  they  entered  it,  they  sat  for  a 
long  time  in  a  berth  that  had  not  been  made  up,  but 
not  talking.  It  was  not  the  intimate  eloquent  si- 
lence of  the  woodland.  A  heavy  foreboding  was 
upon  them. 

Every  one  else  in  the  car  had  retired  before  either 
spoke.  Then  Mark,  glancing  at  Kazia,  saw  that  her 
closed  eyes  were  wet. 

"What's  wrong,  dear?" 

She  opened  her  eyes.  "What  a  day !  I  thought  it 
would  never  end,  having  to  keep  on  acting  a  lie 
under  his  sly  hateful  eyes.  Under  his  talk  he  was 
laughing  at  us  always,  enjoying  our  predicament" 


330    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

"The  bumptious  fraud!  I  could  have  choked 
him  when  he  patted  your  hand  and  looked  at  you  as 
if—" 

"Men  are  apt  to  look  at  me  so,"  she  answered 
wearily.  "It  was  then  he  said,  very  pointedly,  that 
he  has  a  short  memory — sometimes.  Do  you  think 
he  means  that  ?" 

"I  think  he  does  now,  anyhow.  For  the  future 
we've  got  to  chance  it.  Are  you  afraid?" 

"I  don't  know,"  she  sighed.  "I  don't  think  he  in- 
tends to  forget — or  to  let  us  forget.  Nothing  will 
be  the  same  now.  He  will  be  hanging  over  us,  al- 
ways a  shadow." 

He  made  an  effort  to  lift  the  shadow.  "Don't  let 
it  trouble  you.  I  think  we're  safe,  because  his  pre- 
cious reputation  is  in  danger  and  he  imagines  I  can 
save  it.  You  exaggerate  this  now,  naturally.  It's 
just  the  reaction  from  happiness  too  perfect.  Of 
course,  things  will  be  the  same.  You'll  find,  sweet- 
heart," he  tried  to  laugh  reassuringly,  "there  are 
many  mountains  of  happiness  yet  unsealed." 

But  they  were  hollow  words. 

"Why,"  she  cried,  "can't  love  be  free?" 

"There's  still  a  way  to  free  ours  from  all  danger." 

She  did  not  answer  at  once. 

"No.  Even  if  that  had  been  possible,  it  isn't  now, 
because — we've  broken  a  law."  She  rose.  "I  must 
get  some  rest  now.  I  think  I  never  was  so  tired. 
Good  night." 

She  left  him  and  went  to  her  stateroom. 

Thus  began  the  first  of  many  lonely  nights.    It 


THE    CLEFT    STICK  331 

was  a  long  night  for  him.  Most  of  it  he  spent  real- 
izing that  under  the  prying  eyes  of  another  their 
idyl  had  become  but  a  commonplace  liaison,  and  try- 
ing not  to  wonder  what  was  the  mystery  that  lay 
behind  her  refusal  to  redeem  it. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

PHILANTHROPY 

THE  Quinby  strike  is  now  history.  It  is,  how- 
ever, no  part  of  recorded  history  that  dur- 
ing the  anxious  months  preceding  one  man  was 
toiling,  planning,  spending  himself  to  avert  the 
tragic  outcome  he  foresaw.  It  was  quiet  hidden 
work.  Even  had  it  succeeded  it  would  have  been  no 
more  widely  heralded  than  in  failure. 

He  did  foresee  the  outcome  as  tragic,  -but  not  be- 
cause a  philanthropist's  reputation  hung  in  the  bal- 
ance. As  he  went  about  among  the  men,  studying 
the  situation,  doing  his  quiet  missionary  work,  he 
caught  with  a  new  sensitiveness  a  new  picture:  the 
army  of  steel-makers,  pick  of  the  strong  races,  en- 
listed under  the  promise  that  had  lured  him ;  march- 
ing quietly,  with  undramatic  unsung  courage  into 
the  hand-to-hand  struggle  with  the  elements ;  driven 
and  obedient;  daring  sudden  awful  mischance,  en- 
during the  heat  that  shriveled  strength,  the  clamor 
that  ate  into  brain,  the  fierce  effort  that  broke  body 
and  soul ;  giving,  wasting  themselves  that  the  world 
might  build  bigger  and  stronger,  move  faster.  Out 
of  it  they  got  so  much  of  life  as  is  embraced  in  a 
roof  under  which  to  sleep  off  exhaustion,  some  food 

332 


PHILANTHROPY  333 

for  their  bellies  and  the  necessity  for  unremitting 
toil,  sometimes — oh,  happy  fortune! — a  pittance  to 
tide  them  through  a  helpless  age. 

Faster,  always  faster,  ground  the  mechanism, 
toiled  the  army  in  multiplying  plants,  performing 
prodigies  of  production — and  piling  up  a  mountain 
of  gold  so  high  that  close  secrecy  must  obtain  lest 
men,  learning,  refuse  longer  to  pay  the  tribute 
levied  by  insane  greed.  Tales  were  told  of  the  Tru- 
itts  and  Higbees,  workmen  who  had  risen  to  wealth 
before  their  prime,  and  of  others — mere  "laborers" ! 
— borne  to  work  in  carriage  and  pair.  Romantic 
tales  that  took  no  account  of  the  whims  of  fortune 
or  exceptional  endowment.  But  the  lot  of  the  men 
did  not  change,  save  for  the  worse ;  as  the  mountain 
piled  higher,  their  share  grew  less.  For  every 
Truitt  were  a  thousand  Romans,  fallen  out  of  the 
battle  and  left  to  nurse  their  wounds  as  best  they 
could. 

These  gave  their  all  to  steel.  The  others,  those 
who  held  possession  of  the  mountain,  did  not  give 
all.  Of  time  and  thought  and  strength  at  least 
enough  was  left  to  learn  strange  manners  and  cus- 
toms, to  flaunt  the  trophies,  to  practise  the  lately 
won  luxury,  to  follow  their  women  into  new  spheres. 
But  when,  seeing  that  the  harder  they  toiled  the  less 
they  got,  the  men  murmured  mutiny,  as  armies 
sometimes  will,  the  others,  looking  down  from  the 
distant  height  of  their  mountain,  saw  no  right  in- 
volved but  only  a  threatened  revenue,  and  prepared 
to  overawe  or,  failing  that,  to  crush  the  mutineers. 


334     THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK   TRUITT 

Mark  Truitt  did  not  toy  lightly  with  cold  theory 
and  philosophy.  He  did  not  try  to  determine  the 
relative  merit  of  the  commander,  who  without  army 
is  nothing,  and  the  army  which  without  leaders  is 
yet  a  force.  He  saw  only  a  condition  that  disturbed 
him  deeply,  drew  all  his  sympathies  to  those  whom 
it  was  now  his  function  to  hoodwink  and  placate 
into  a  renewal  of  the  old  relation.  It  was  not  the 
protest  of  disappointed  desire,  nor  yet  the  vague  re- 
morse for  the  cheat  upon  Timothy  Woodhouse.  It 
passed  even  beyond  the  hot  resentment  known  when 
he  had  been  a  laborer  and  himself  felt  the  cruel  pres- 
sure of  the  masters.  He  was  conscious  of  a  fellow- 
ship with  the  men  he  had  never  felt  among  the  con- 
querors. Instinctively  he  saw  every  phase  of  the 
dispute  from  the  angle  of  the  men's  interest. 

Because  he  looked  from  the  angle  of  their  interest, 
he  strove  to  avert  the  strike.  As  one  who  knew  of 
the  secret  treasure  he  saw  it  was  foredoomed  to 
failure.  What  chance  had  the  men,  with  their 
young  feeble  organization,  against  the  masters  who 
had  but  to  let  loose  down  the  side  of  their  mountain 
an  avalanche  that  would  crush  the  mutineers?  Not 
in  such  unequal  contest  could  they  win  a  juster, 
easier  lot. 

There  was  one  man  who  saw  and  understood  his 
efforts.  He  was  Henley. 

They  were  together  pne  day,  Mark  arguing  earn- 
estly for  a  compromise.  Henley  listened,  not  be- 
cause he  was  impressed  by  the  arguments,  but  be- 
cause he  was  studying  the  pleader. 


PHILANTHROPY  335 

"Are  you  for  us,"  he  interrupted  a  long  period  to 
demand  sharply,  "or  for  the  men  ?" 

"I'm  for  both." 

"You  can't  be  for  both.  Are  you,"  Henley  jeered, 
"still  trying  to  play  the  man  of  peace?" 

"No.  I'm  trying  to  obtain  a  little  justice  and  to 
save  the  Quinby  company  from  idle  mills." 

"They  won't  be  idle  long.  And  we  can  afford 
idleness  better  than  the  men  can." 

"They're  growing  bitter.    There  will  be  violence." 

"Then  let  there  be  violence.  I'll  know  how  to 
meet  it."  Henley's  jaws  set.  "There'll  be  no  com- 
promise. Every  big  industry  in  the  country  has 
been  handicapped  by  interference  and  outrageous 
demands  from  these  infernal  unions  who  think 
they've  a  right  to  run  other  people's  business.  Ex- 
cept steel.  That's  one  reason  we've  grown  so  fast. 
And  sooner  or  later  we'll  have  to  come  to  the  same 
thing,  unless  we  fight  it  out  once  for  all.  Let  us 
fight  it  out  now,  while  we're  ready — and  the  men 
aren't.  The  harder  the  fight  the  better  I'm  satisfied, 
because  the  longer  it'll  take  the  union  to  recover." 

"You're  hopeless."  Mark  eyed  him  significantly. 
"I  see  I'll  have  to  appeal  to  Caesar." 

"Meaning  Quinby  ?  Caesar's  ghost  must  feel  flat- 
tered!" 

"He  has  an  interest  in  the  premises.  I  should 
think  it  would  be  to  your  interest — " 

"Is  that  a  kind  of  a  threat?"  Henley  inquired 
harshly.  "I'm  not  afraid  of  Quinby  just  now. 
Sooner  or  later  I  expect  to  be  kicked  out  of  this 


336    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

company.  But  he  can't  kick  me  out  of  steel.  And 
I  don't  propose  to  see  the  industry  run  to  suit  the 
whims  of  tough  walking  delegates  and  grafting 
labor  bosses.  You  seem  to  be  in  Quinby's  confidence. 
I'm  free  to  say  I  don't  like  it.  It  looks  to  me  as 
though  you're  hedging,  so  you  won't  have  to  go  out 
with  me." 

"What  do  you  expect?" 

"I  made  you.  I've  given  you  all  you  have.  I  ex- 
pect you  to  stand  by  me." 

"You  demand  more  than  you  give  others.  The 
men  give  you  all  they  have  and  you  refuse — " 

"The  men  work  for  their  living,  as  men  must. 
Most  of  them  get  a  good  living.  When  they're 
worth  it  they  get  more.  You  got  more.  If  they 
don't  like  our  terms  let  them  find  better  somewhere 
else — if  they  can.  As  for  Caesar,  don't  count  too 
much  on  him.  There  are  bigger  interests  than  his 
vanity  at  stake  just  now,  and  you'll  find  when  it 
comes  to  a  point  they'll  hold.  Quinby's  a  blather- 
skite, but  I've  never  said  he's  a  fool." 

Mark  said  nothing.  Henley's  words  but  echoed 
his  own  fears.  Henley  regarded  him  frowningly. 

"What,"  he  demanded  abruptly,  "has  got  into 
you  the  last  year?  Before  that  I  could  always  count 
on  you.  Now — I  don't  understand  you." 

"When  it  comes  to  that,"  Mark  laughed  shortly, 
"I  don't  understand  myself." 

Mark  had  been  partly  right  when  he  attributed 
the  mood  of  their  return  to  reaction.  A  lighter  mood 


PHILANTHROPY  337 

followed.  Kazia's  work  allowed  them  to  meet  but 
seldom  and  then  often  for  only  hurried  visits;  the 
eagerness  bred  by  separation  drove  such  problems  as 
Quinby  and  the  meaning  of  their  relation  into  the 
background.  But  the  shadow  never  quite  lifted. 
As  winter  wore  on  Kazia  began  to  perceive  growing 
up  in  Mark's  heart  a  new  interest,  so  strong  that 
sometimes  it  intruded  even  into  the  brief  hours 
that  should  have  been  given  wholly  to  love. 

She  did  not  reproach  him  or  seek  by  subtle  arts 
to  destroy  it.  She  stifled  the  jealous  pangs  and 
passively  accepted  his  love-making  and  passion,  re- 
sponding to  his  advances,  but  never  herself  thrust- 
ing love  upon  his  notice  as  in  the  woods — and 
watched  the  new  interest  grow;  she  even  quietly 
encouraged  it  to  grow.  Her  passivity  was  a  con- 
cealment. He  was  never  allowed  to  guess  the  avid 
hunger  with  which  she  devoured  the  moments  when 
he  forgot  all  else  in  her  or  the  haunting  fear,  having 
naught  to  do  with  Quinby,  that  made  her  dread  even 
while  she  burned  to  reach  their  next  meeting. 

There  was  an  evening  when  he  came  to  her  apart- 
ment, tired  and  discouraged,  but  with  an  air  that 
sent  her  memory  back  to  a  slender  youth  going  dog- 
gedly forth  each  day  to  labor  meant  for  stronger 
men.  She,  too,  was  tired  from  a  long  exacting  case 
whose  close  allowed  them  this  leisurely  meeting,  the 
first  in  weeks. 

"This  week,"  she  told  him  after  he  had  been  there 
a  little  while,  "I  was  offered  the  superintendency  of 
nurses  at  the  Todd  Hospital." 


338    THE  AMBITION  OE  MARK  TRUITT 

"That's  fine!    I'm  glad.    When  do  you  begin ?" 

"Have  you  forgotten?  I  think  it  comes  through 
Mr.  Quinby." 

"Take  it  anyhow,"  he  answered  promptly.  "Since 
you  won't  let  me  help  you." 

"I  don't  like  to  be  under  obligations  to  him." 

"Take  it.  If  he  meant  mischief,  I  think  we'd 
have  heard  from  him  before  now.  And  it's  only 
fair  for  somebody  to  get  something  out  pf  him.  God 
knows  I'm  doing  enough  for  him." 

"You  mean  with  the  men?" 

"Yes.  Though,  if  he  only  knew  it,  I'm  not  doing 
it  for  his  sake.  I  believe  it  was  for  the  men  I  un- 
dertook the  job."  He  shook  his  head  gloomily. 
"But  the  worst  of  it  is,  I'm  almost  certain  to  fail." 

"Oh,  I  hope  not." 

"Yes.  Sometimes  I  think  I'm  the  only  sane  man 
left  pn  earth.  Each  side  thinks  it's  bound  to  win. 
One  side  is — and  it  isn't  the  men.  But  they  won't 
listen  to  me.  It  makes  me  sick  to  think  what  they'll 
have  to  pay  if  they  go  into  this  hopeless  contest. 
You  don't  know  how  the  thing  is  taking  hold  on 
me.  You  think  this  queer  talk  from  me  ?" 

"I  don't  find  it  queer." 

"It  is  queer.  I  haven't  come  to  the  why  yet.  Do 
you  believe,"  he  asked  abruptly,  "that  love  can 
awaken  all  the  sympathies?" 

"I  believe  that  it  can." 

"It  must  be  so."  He  eyed  thoughtfully  the  blue 
spirals  rising  from  the  cigar  she  allowed  him  to 
smoke.  "It  must  be  so,  because  before  we  went 


PHILANTHROPY  339 

away  I  couldn't  have  felt  this  thing  as  I  do  now. 
All  my  life  I'd  looked  on  existence  as  a  sort  of 
battle  royal,  every  man  trying  to  knock  over  every 
other.  If  he  got  bowled  over,  it  was  just  a  risk 
he  took  when  he  entered  the  pit.  As  if  he  had  any 
choice  in  the  matter !  When  I  got  tired  of  it  because 
it  disappointed,  I  had  a  foolish  dream — I  wanted 
peace,  a  little  corner  to  myself,  out  of  the  fracas. 
Then,"  he  turned  gravely  to  her,  "I  saw,  I  was  given, 
a  love — a  real  love — yours.  When  we  came  back,  I 
began  to  see  things  that  had  always  been  staring 
me  in  the  face,  to  feel  them.  Now  I  don't  want 
peace.  I  accept  that  battle  royal.  But  I'd  like  to 
help  the  poor  devils  that  weren't  given  a  fair  start. 
It  is,  it  must  be  your  miracle,  Kazia.  You  said  once 
love  has  many  fruits." 

There  was  a  little  catch  in  her  vpice.  "I'm  glad 
you  say  that — even  if  it  shouldn't  be  true." 

"It  is!  Through  you  I  believe  I've  found  my 
measure.  Wouldn't  it  be  strange,"  he  went  on  mu- 
singly, "if  through  Quinby — the  philanthropist! — 
I've  found  my  big  idea?" 

"Your  big  idea?" 

"Yes."  He  forgot  that  no  Richard  Courtney  had 
ever  defined  it  for  her.  "I'll  probably  fail  in  this 
wrangle.  But  after  that — why  not? — the  happy 
city,  and  in  Bethel.  The  thing's  getting  into  my 
blood.  Or  am  I,  after  all,  the  one  who  is  mad  ?" 

If  she  was  white,  he  laid  it  to  weariness.  "If  you 
are,  I  love  your  madness." 

A  silence.    When  she  broke  it  he,  absorbed  in  the 


340    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

train  of  thoughts  set  in  motion  by  mention  of  the 
unbuilt  city,  did  not  catch  the  odd  strained  note  in 
the  words. 

"Then  you  think  I'd  better  take  the  position?" 

"Ah !"  He  came  back  remorsefully  to  the  subject. 
"Of  course,  you  must  take  it." 

"Even  from  Quinby?" 

"However  it  comes,  you're  fitted  for  it.  You've 
earned  it." 

"But,"  she  insisted  quietly,  "I'd  have  to  live  at 
the  hospital.  I'd  have  no  excuse  for  keeping  this 
apartment." 

"Oh,  no,  surely  not!  You  mustn't  give  it  up.  I 
need  you,  Kazia — these  hours — "  Alarm  had  driven 
all  but  love — he  still  called  it  love — from  his  heart 
for  the  moment.  He  leaned  over  and  caught  her 
to  him. 

"Not  at  once,  perhaps,"  she  murmured  weakly. 
"I  could  come  here  sometimes — until  the  lease  ex- 
pires— " 

He  laughed.  "Do  you  think  love  is  determined 
by  a  landlord's  contract  ?" 

"Not  by  that!"  With  a  little  gasping  cry  she 
reached  up  and  clung  to  him. 

But  when  he  had  gone  she  crept  into  her  bed  and 
lay  there  sleepless.  She  thought,  not  of  the  rap- 
turous hour  just  spent,  but  of  the  new  interest  that 
was  taking  hold  of  him,  that  must  carry  him  to 
heights  where  he  could  read  a  new  meaning  into 
such  hours.  She  thought,  too,  of  what  she  had  not 
told  him:  the  three  visits  that  Quinby,  in  sudden 


PHILANTHROPY  341 

acceptance  of  his  responsibility  as  trustee,  had  made 
to  the  hospital,  and  his  greedy  confident  eyes.  Those 
eyes  frightened  her;  they  seemed  to  have  possessed 
her  already.  .  .  .  She  hated  the  beautiful  body 
men  loved,  the  heritage  of  flame  that  seared  but  did 
not  consume. 

During  the  last  days  of  the  negotiations  Mark  al- 
most hoped  the  strike  could  be  averted.  The  men, 
listening  to  his  persuasions,  agreed  to  accept  a  mere- 
ly nominal  increase  in  the  wage  scale.  But  the 
agreement  must  be  signed,  not  by  the  men  as  indi- 
viduals, but  by  the  union  for  them ;  from  that  stand 
the  young  organization,  its  very  life  at  stake,  would 
not  be  moved. 

Three  men  were  in  Henley's  office  on  that  last 
night  before  the  decision  was  announced.  One  had 
just  made  his  final  plea  for  the  compromise. 

Henley  shook  his  head  firmly.  "I  will  not  recog- 
nize the  union." 

"But  they  ask  so  little." 

Both  glanced  at  the  other  man,  a  tall  stately  fig- 
ure, pacing,  hands  clasped  behind  his  back,  up  and 
down  the  room.  A  troubled  despairing  frown 
roughened  the  lofty  brow. 

"I'm  looking  ahead,"  Henley  replied.  "Labor  or- 
ganizations never  go  back,  unless  you  catch  'em 
young  and  kill  'em  off.  Recognize  them  now  and 
three  years  hence  they'll  demand  a  raised  scale. 
Next,  it  will  be  the  closed  shop.  Then  another  raise, 
and  so  en.  We'll  be  running  our  mills  for  the  ben- 


342    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

efit  of  men  who  have  no  stake  in  them,  never  know- 
ing when  they'll  be  after  us  with  new  outrageous 
demands.  I  will  not  have  it."  Henley  spoke  with 
feeling. 

The  pacing  figure  stopped,  looking  at  Mark. 
"What  have  you  to  say  to  that?" 

"I  say,  the  men  are  desperate.  They'll  stop  at 
nothing  to  win  the  strike.  It  will  cost  us  millions." 

"Cheaper  now  than  ever,"  Henley  interrupted. 

"I  say,"  Mark  went  on,  "this  industry,  this  com- 
pany, can  afford  to  grant  any  demands  labor  will 
ever  make.  And  there's  such  a  thing  as  humanity. 
If  that  isn't  enough—  He  paused,  looking  steadily 
at  Quinby.  "If  that  isn't  enough,  I  say  the  public 
is  on  the  men's  side  and  it  hasn't  forgotten  the  Sia- 
mese twins  of  production  and  other  beautiful  senti- 
ments publicly  uttered  by  a  certain  famous  philan- 
thropist." 

"Ah!"  groaned  Quinby.  "The  cruel  misunder- 
standing world !" 

"The  understanding  world,"  Mark  corrected  cold- 
ly. "Ten  thousand  institutes  of  paleontology  won't 
make  it  forget  a  philanthropy  that  failed  when  it 
was  put  to  a  real  test." 

"I  am  in  a  cleft  stick,"  Quinby  groaned  again,  and 
resumed  his  anxious  pacing.  But  he  was  halted  by 
Henley's  next  words. 

"You  had  a  visit  from  some  men  in  New  York 
last  week." 

"How  do  you  know  ?"  Quinby  was  visibly  startled. 

"I  advised  them  to  see  you,"  Henley  rejoined. 


PHILANTHROPY  343 

"They're  men  of  power.  They  own  newspapers. 
They  can  make  and  unmake  men  and  reputations. 
They  can  destroy  you  as  easily  as  they  would  a  cor- 
ner grocer.  They're  interested  in  the  future  of  steel. 
They're  more  interested,  as  every  controller  of  prop- 
erty must  be,  in  the  fight  to  stamp  out  this  epidemic 
of  labor  agitation.  I  remind  you,  it  isn't  safe  to  dis- 
regard their  advice." 

"What  interest  have  they  in  my  reputation  ?" 

"Humph !  They  think  as  I  do — damn  your  repu- 
tation !" 

Quinby  started,  glared.  His  tongue  fumbled  vain- 
ly for  words  to  answer  this  astounding  lese-majesty. 
He  took  a  step  toward  Henley,  menacingly. 

"Humph!"  Henley  grunted  again.  "You  can 
save  your  wind.  I'm  not  afraid  of  you  just  now. 
And  I  won't  let  this  company  be  crippled  by  giving 
in  to  the  union.  The  men  who  saw  you  won't  per- 
mit it  either — without  punishing." 
j  "I  suppose  you  think  they  can  keep  you  in  this 
company,  too?" 

|  "No,"  Henley  answered  steadily.  "Between  you 
and  me  they  won't  interfere.  But  between  you  and 
them — between  your  expensive  reputation  and  their 
interest — they  will  interfere.  The  labor  unions  are 
your  common  enemy.  If  you  let  them  get  a  foot- 
hold here,  you  may  as  well  lie  down  and  die.  For 
there  isn't  a  spot  on  the  earth  where  the  truth  about 
Quinby" — hatred  gave  savagery  to  the  threat — "the 
pious  fraud,  the  hounder  of  women,  the  traitor  in 
business  dealings,  won't  reach." 


344    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK   TRUITT 

Quinby's  glare  had  no  power  now,  as  at  another 
time,  to  subdue  Henley. 

He  sank  into  a  chair,  stretching  out  his  hands  to 
Mark  in  a  helpless  gesture.  "Can't  you  say  some- 
thing?" 

"If  you  aren't  a  coward  and  a  fraud,"  Mark  an- 
swered with  undisguised  disgust,  "you'll  know  what 
to  say.  If  you  are — "  He  concluded  with  a  shrug. 

It  was  an  intolerable  moment  for  Quinby.  He 
rose,  made  a  pitiable  effort  to  gather  the  tatters  of 
his  vanity  around  his  naked  cowardice. 

"I  leave  you  in  charge.  I  go  to  New  York  to- 
night. An  expedition  starts  for  Tibet  to-morrow. 
I  shall  join  it." 

He  stalked  stiffly  to  the  door.  There  he  stopped 
for  a  second,  looking  back  with  eyes  that  were  not 
good  to  see. 

Henley  turned  to  Mark.  "As  for  you,"  he  began 
sternly,  "I've  let  you  play  your  game,  because  you 
could  do  no  harm.  But  now,  having  learned  that 
you  can't  pin  faith  even  to  the  vanity  of  a  coward — " 

Mark  met  his  gaze  quietly.  "I  have  learned  more 
than  that.  But,  at  least,  the  feet  were  of  iron, 
after  all." 

The  next  day  the  failure  of  negotiations  was  an- 
nounced. On  the  next  the  strike  was,  ordered. 

Henley  was  ready.  On  the  morning  of  the  third 
day  detached  squads  of  strangers  appeared  in  the 
vicinity  of  the  mills,  trying  to  saunter  along  with 
the  air  of  casual  ease.  Motley  crews:  bruiser  and 
outcast,  the  mercenary  and  the  desperate,  men  to 


PHILANTHROPY  345 

whom  the  task  ahead  was  a  golden  adventure  and 
men  to  whom  it  was  a  last  escape  from  starvation. 
They  were  Henley's  strike-breakers,  gathered  from 
many  cities. 

And  the  strikers  were  ready,  though  few  of  them 
wot  of  preparation.  They  gathered  about  the  gates 
of  the  mills,  sullen,  ominously  quiet  crowds  that 
burned  with  a  sense  of  wrong.  Women  were  there, 
white-faced  and  frightened  by  the  prophecy  of  a 
sixth  sense;  and  children. 

The  first  squad  slipped  unnoticed  into  the  mills, 
and  a  second.  Then  along  the  mile  or  more  of 
street  an  electric  word  passed  from  watching  crowd 
to  crowd,  "Henley's  strike-breakers!"  The  third 
squad  reached  the  refuge  of  the  mills  only  by  a  sud- 
den overbearing  dash.  The  fourth  found  its  way 
blocked  and  itself  pressed  back  by  a  surging  curs- 
ing mob.  The  remaining  strike-breakers  rallied  to 
this  point  and  in  a  body  tried  by  brute  force  to  drive 
a  lane  through  the  resisting  pack  of  men  and  women. 
But  the  mob  grew  faster,  gathered  around  the  in- 
vaders, roughly  jostling  them  and  shrieking  taunts 
and  blasphemies.  Blows  were  struck,  missiles  hurled. 
Then  above  the  clamor  a  shot  was  heard. 

A  cry,  "A  woman  is  killed !"  answered  by  a  hoarse 
frenzied  bellow.  Many  weapons  flashed  from  pock- 
ets where  they  had  lain  hidden.  Other  shots  were 
heard,  fired  pointblank  at  living  targets.  The  melee 
became  a  battle.  When  it  was  over,  the  strike- 
breakers had  fled  and  two  score  and  more  lay  dead 
on  the  streets.  Through  the  labyrinth  of  silent  ma- 


chinery  and  chilling  furnaces  a  mob  that  panted  with 
the  thirst  for  blood  hunted  out  and  shot  down  those 
of  Henley's  men  who  had  reached  the  mills.  .  .  . 
Mad  ?  Mad  as  though  a  bastile  waited  to  be  taken. 

Two  days  the  terror  lasted.  The  mills — sacred 
property ! — were  wrecked.  Timid  posses  were  driv- 
en back.  Crazed  orators  harangued  the  mob  and 
took  for  ironic  text  "the  Siamese  twins  of  produc- 
tion." 

Then  with  measured  tread  and  gleaming  bayo- 
nets came  the  force  of  the  law,  and  peace — the 
peace  of  the  strong — hovered  once  more  over  Quin- 
by's  mills. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

THE   PRESSURE   OF   TRUTH 

THE  strike  was  brpken.  Engines  crunched  and 
furnaces  glowed  again.  The  men,  starved  out, 
had  crept  back  to  the  mill  gates,  begging  for  work. 
The  troops  marched  away  and  the  union,  at  least 
in  Quinby's  mills,  never  raised  its  head  again. 

But  at  what  a  cost! 

Jeremiah  Quinby  returned — not,  however,  with 
a  blare  of  trumpets.  In  fact,  he  came  almost  se- 
cretly, though  not  wholly  put  of  modesty;  no  re- 
porter so  bold  or  so  shrewd  as  to  win  to  his  well- 
guarded  presence.  The  expedition  to  Tibet  had 
been  eminently  successful.  A  massive  leg  bone  had 
been  discovered,  from  the  proportions  of  which 
the  scientists  were  enabled  to  construct  a  life  size 
replica  of  a  certain  prehistoric  monster,  which  was 
to  have  been  surnamed  QuinbyL  But  with  discreet 
self-restraint  the  expedition  refrained  from  calling 
the  public's  attention  to  this  discovery.  The  cyn- 
ical public  had  lately  become  deeply  interested  in 
the  Siamese  twins  of  production  and  upon  the  de- 
voted head  of  their  author  had  heaped  its  cruel 
satire. 

But  Quinby's  return  was  not  without  its  objects. 

347 


One  of  them  was  to  unseat  the  arrogant  Henley, 
and  to  this  Quinby,  without  concealment  or  delay, 
bent  his  energies.  In  the  other,  which  seems  to 
prove  that  in  matters  of  sex  are  neither  prince,  priest 
nor  peasant,  but  only  man  and  woman,  more  finesse 
was  employed.  Only  one  person  had  an  inkling  of 
this  project  and  she  kept  well  the  secret. 

There  was  heard  a  merry  cracking  of  whips.  One 
by  one  Quinby  won  the  minor  stockholders  over 
to  his  primary  object  and  approached  the  point 
where  he  could  deal  the  blow.  Henley  grimly 
waited.  Mark  was  not  approached  on  the  matter, 
for  the  sufficient  reason  that  he,  too,  had  been  singled 
out  for  vengeance. 

"Quinby  is  back,"  he  told  Kazia  once. 

It  was  one  of  their  evenings  together.  Such  oc- 
casions were  rarer  now  and  subtly  different  from 
their  earlier  encounters.  Outwardly  Mark's  devo- 
tion had  lost  nothing ;  there  was  even  an  added  gen- 
tleness in  his  manner  toward  Kazia.  But  there  was 
a  lack  that  a  loving  woman  could  not  have  failed 
to  detect.  For  one  thing,  passion  had  gone  stale. 
Kazia  was  another  who  waited. 

There  was  a  perceptible  pause  before  she  an- 
swered. "Yes.  He  visited  the  hospital  the  other 
day." 

"Keeping  his  hand  in,  I  suppose,"  he  said  lightly. 
"Unhappily,  Quinby  is  cut  off  from  public  philan- 
thropic exercises  until  the  present  cloud  passes." 

She  achieved  a  smile. 

"But    humanity's    loss    isn't    our    gain,''    Mark 


THE   PRESSURE   OF    TRUTH       349 

grinned  wryly.  "He's  getting  ready  to  eliminate 
Henley  and  me  from  the  company." 

"Oh,  that's  too  bad.    Will  it  make  you — poor  ?" 

"No.  But  it  will  leave  me  considerably  less  rich 
than  I'd  like  to  be." 

"I  thought  you  didn't  care  for  money." 

"No  man  cares  so  little  for  it  that  he's  willing 
to  lose  it.  And  I'll  need  every  dollar  I  have." 

She  guessed  what  he  had  in  mind.  "You  say  you 
will  need  it?" 

"For  my  happy  city."  He  laughed,  then  grew 
serious.  "Kazia,  I'm  going  to  build  it.  At  least, 
I'm  going  to  start  it." 

"Ah!"  She  turned  away  with  a  sharp  intake  of 
breath.  "It — it  would  be  something  worth  while." 

The  little  quaver  in  her  voice  escaped  him. 

"Bigger  than  you  think,  if  it  succeeds.  But  it's 
got  to  succeed.  Do  you,"  he  turned  to  her  with 
a  mirthful  boyish  light  she  had  rarely  seen  in  his 
eyes,  "detect  any  symptoms  of  insanity  in  me?" 

"None." 

"Or  evidence  of  a  philanthropic  bias?" 

"Not  as  I  understand  the  word."  But  she  did  not 
smile. 

"I  am  relieved."  He  laughed,  then  returned  to 
earnestness.  "It  would  be  easier  if  it  were  merely 
a  spectacular  philanthropy,  for  then  I'd  have  to  se- 
cure only  the  appearance  of  good,  ignoring  the  sub- 
stance. As  it  is,  I've  got  to  make  it  pay.  I  must 
prove  that  men  who  are  happy,  working  under  per- 
fect conditions  and  for  decent  hours  and  having  an 


350    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

honest  share  of  the  profits,  will  dp  more  and  better 
work  than  driven  cattle.  That  seems  self-evident, 
doesn't  it?" 

"Yes.    Does  it  mean  so  much  to  you?" 

"More  than  anything  else  in  the  world,"  he  an- 
swered, blind  to  all  but  his  idea.  "The  thing  has 
possessed  me.  I've  ceased  to  wonder  if  I'm  crazy 
or  to  be  afraid  of  my  enthusiasm.  Waking  and 
sleeping,  I  have  it  with  me,  studying  it,  getting  a 
definite  plan  and  working  out  details.  And  I'm  al- 
most ready  to  begin." 

For  an  hour,  unconscious  of  cruelty,  he  discoursed 
of  his  plans,  eagerly  and  eloquently.  His  eloquence 
was  not  in  vain.  She  listened  without  comment,  but 
as  he  talked  the  picture  he  saw  grew  before  her, 
convincing,  real :  the  happy  city  rising  in  the  beau- 
tiful valley,  a  place  where  men  toiled  and  were  not 
consumed,  found  refuge  from  weariness  not  in  vice, 
but  in  clean  contented  homes  and  wholesome  sports, 
gave  of  their  best  to  the  labor  because  of  its  earn- 
ings they  had  a  just  share,  living  hopefully.  .  .  . 
She  measured  it  by  the  life  of  the  steel-maker  as  she 
had  seen  it,  and  him  by  the  quality  of  his  dream. 

"Do  you  see  it?" 

"I  see  it." 

i  "A  queer  thing,"  he  went  on  reflectively,  "a  man's 
life!  It  seems  just  a  procession  of  unordered  im- 
pulses and  reactions,  without  rhyme  or  reason.  But 
all  the  time  he's  learning,  learning,  losing  here  and 
gaining  there,  being  shaped  to  fit  into  the  niche  he's 
meant  to  fill.  Looking  back,  he  can  see  the  pattern. 


THE   PRESSURE   OF   TRUTH       351 

7  can  see  it  was  inevitable  from  the  beginning  that 
I  should  attempt  this.  Everything  else,  the  things 
that  hurt  or  disappointed  or  pleased,  have  been  just 
incidental  to  the  preparation." 

"Just  incidental."- 

"But,"  he  continued,  less  forensically,  "I'm  not  so 
fatuous  as  to  believe  success  is  inevitable.  It  will 
be  a  long  hard  pull.  One  of  the  things  I've  learned 
is  to  understand  men  of  wealth.  Their  cruelties  are 
the  cruelties  of  cowardice — the  fear  of  those  who 
have  that  those  who  have  not  will  force  a  distribu- 
tion of  the  spoils.  They're  afraid  of  anything  new 
or  different.  Therefore  they  will  fight  me  as  only 
cowards  can — until  they're  convinced  even  human- 
ity can  pay  dividends.  That,"  he  frowned,  "is 
where  Quinby  will  pinch  me.  Every  dollar  he  takes 
from  me  will  lessen  my  chances  of  pulling  through 
the  first  fight." 

"Can't  you  stop  him  ?" 

"As  easy  stop  a  mad  snake.  Quinby  has  much  to 
take  out  on  Henley  and  me.  And  we're  helpless." 

"Perhaps  a  way  out  will  be  found." 

The  flat  lifeless  voice,  so  unlike  hers,  recalled  him 
to  her. 

"Are  you  disgusted  ?"  he  exclaimed  remorsefully. 
"Here  I've  been  clacking  away  like  Quinby  himself, 
never  noticing  how  tired  you  are.  Let  me  take  you 
back  to  the  hospital." 

"No.  I  arranged  to  stay  here  overnight  to  begin 
packing  my  things  up." 

"But  your  lease — " 


352     THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

"Even  leases,"  she  answered  quietly,  "don't  al- 
ways run  their  full  course.  The  agent  has  a  tenant 
who  wants  this  apartment  and  I  promised  to  move 
out  next  week." 

"Kazia!"  He  found  himself  flushing.  Only  by 
a  strong  effort  could  he  make  his  eyes  meet  hers. 
"That  means  you  think  I'm  forgetting  you  in  my 
new  plans." 

"I  think,"  she  answered,  "only  that  you're  a  man 
and  that  love,  especially  such  love  as  ours,  isn't 
enough." 

He  look  at  her  in  silence  for  a  moment.  "Kazia," 
he  began  very  gently,  "I  could  lie  to  you,  but  there 
must  be  no  lies  between  us.  Love  isn't  enough — 
even  such  love  as  ours.  A  man  must  do  his  work. 
It's  the  inescapable  law.  But  that  doesn't  mean  that 
love — that  you — won't  always  have  a  big  place  with 
me,  a  place  all  your  own."  He  drew  her  closer,  so 
that  her  head  rested  on  his  shoulder,  and  smoothed 
the  thick  dark  hair.  "It  never  occurred  to  me  you 
•wouldn't  be  as  interested  as  I  in  my  plans.  You've 
given  me  so  much,  you've  seemed  so  much  a  part  of 
what  I'm  to  do — I've  thought  of  it  as  our  work — 

A  hand  stole  over  his  mouth.  She  raised  her 
head,  and  she  was  smiling. 

"Don't!  You  make  me  ashamed.  .  .  .  And 
now  you  must  go." 

"Can't  I  stay  to  help  you?" 

"A  man  pack!"  she  laughed  gaily. 

"A  man,"  he  sighed,  trying  to  be  jocose,  "has  so 
many  limitations.  But  it's  all  right,  Kazia?" 


THE   PRESSURE    OF    TRUTH       353 

"It's  all  right" 

But  when  he  was  gone  the  gay  manner  vanished. 
The  strong  figure  drooped  wearily.  She  fell  to  her 
knees  beside  a  chair,  burying  her  face  in  her  arms. 

"What  does  he  know  of  love?" 

After  a  while  she  rose  and  began  the  task  of  dis- 
mantling the  little  apartment.  Closets  and  drawers 
were  emptied  until  the  bed  was  piled  high  with  the 
accumulation  of  a  woman's  little  treasures.  She 
came  at  last  to  a  short-skirted  khaki  suit  that  gave 
out  a  faint  fragrance  of  balsam. 

The  next  evening,  returning  to  his  hotel  for  a  late 
dinner,  Mark  found  a  memorandum  to  call  up  the 
Todd  Hospital.  From  the  hospital  he  received  word 
that  Mrs.  Whiting  had  gone  to  Rose  Alley  and 
asked  him  to  follow  her.  Some  one  was  dying.  He 
did  not  wait  for  dinner,  but  hailing  a  cab,  set  out 
on  another  journey  to  Rose  Alley. 

As  the  cab  rattled  along  on  its  cheerless  way,  he 
sank  from  the  high  spiritual  level  to  which  a  pro- 
posed altruism  had  borne  him.  A  feeling  of  dread, 
not  to  be  explained  by  the  death  he  was  going  to 
witness,  took  hold  of  him.  As  he  entered  the  dis- 
mal echoing  court,  which  was  in  nothing  changed, 
the  feeling  grew  heavier,  took  form.  Rose  Alley 
had  always  presented  a  problem  to  him,  a  tie  to  be 
broken,  a  something  to  escape.  .  .  .  Had  he  then 
something  to  escape  ? 

He  halted,  staring  up  at  a  cracked  blackened  wall 
as  though  he  saw  something  that  frightened  him. 

"Good  God!"  he  muttered  in  answer  to  the  un- 


354    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

worded  question.  "Not  that.  I've  taken  too  much." 
He  stumbled  hastily  up  the  gloomy  staircase  to 
Roman's  door  and  rapped  lightly.  It  was  opened 
by  an  unkempt  foreign  woman,  doubtless  a  neighbor, 
and  he  entered.  Save  for  her  the  kitchen  was  empty. 
But  by  the  light  of  a  smoky  lamp  that  stood  on  the 
table  near  an  inner  door,  he  saw  a  group  dimly 
outlined.  On  a  narrow  bed  lay  a  huge  dropsical 
figure,  seeming  to  Mark  already  dead.  The  Matka, 
more  faded  than  ever,  sat  at  the  dying  man's  side, 
motionless  as  he,  her  gaze  fixed  rigidly  upon  him. 
At  a  window,  her  back  turned  to  Mark  and  the 
group,  stood  Kazia,  in  the  white  uniform  she  had 
not  taken  time  to  change  when  she  answered  the 
summons.  A  dapper  young  doctor,  evidently  a  hos- 
pital interne,  was  taking  Roman's  pulse,  looking 
frowningly  at  his  watch  the  while. 

The  interne  saw  Mark,  and  whispering  something 
to  Kazia,  who  turned,  went  out  into  the  kitchen. 

"I'm  going  now,"  he  said.    "I  was  just  waiting 
until  you  came." 

"Is  there  nothing  more  you  can  do?" 
"Oh,  I  could  keep  him  going  a  few  hours  Ipnger. 
But,"  the  interne  shrugged  his  shoulders,  "why 
should  we  ?" 

"Why  should  we?    For  him  death  is  an  escape." 
"Isn't  it  always  an  escape  for  these  people?"  the 
interne  asked  solemnly,  as  though  he  said  something 
very  wise. 

Mark  glanced   contemptuously  over  the  young 
man,  the  spick  and  span  suit  and  linen  and  soft 


THE    PRESSURE    OF   TRUTH       355 

slender  hands.  "That's  truer  than  you  know,  young 
man.  But  a  life  is  a  life." 

"If  you  say — "  The  interne  was  quick  to  recog- 
nize authority. 

"No.  I  wasn't  thinking  of  him.  Let  him  have 
his  escape." 

The  doctor  left.  Kazia  went  to  Mark.  Gray 
hollows  were  under  her  eyes.  Her  shoulders  sagged 
as  they  never  had  at  the  end  of  their  longest  tramp 
in  the  rough  wilderness.  He  wondered  that  grief 
even  for  Roman,  whom  she  had  loved,  could  work 
such  a  change  in  her.  j 

"Thank  you  for  coming,"  she  said. 

"I'm  glad  you  sent  for  me.  Is  there  anything  I 
can  do?" 

"Yes,  get  Piotr.  He  went  away  early  this  morn- 
ing and  doesn't  know.  It  was  very  sudden.  You'll 
probably  find  him  at — "  She  named  a  corner  a 
mile  or  more  distant.  "He  makes  speeches  there 
every  evening." 

"Kazia,  dear — "  He  laid  a  hand  with  an  impul- 
sive pitying  gesture  on  her  arm. 

"You'll  have  to  hurry,"  she  interrupted.    .    .    . 

The  cab  came  to  a  halt  at  a  corner  where  many 
people  passed.  A  small  changing  crowd  had  gath- 
ered around  a  man  who  from  his  soap-box  ha- 
rangued them.  Most  of  them  listened  for  a  few  min- 
utes, stolid  and  without  response,  and  then  moved 
on.  A  few  did  not  move  away  but  stood  with  eyes 
glued  to  the  speaker,  nodding  and  muttering  ap- 
proval of  his  hot  words. 


356    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

The  orator,  unmindful  of  departing  hearers, 
shrieked  on  in  a  hoarse  rasping  monotone  that 
reached  a  block  away.  His  arms  flailed  the  air  with- 
out ceasing.  His  ugly  face  was  distorted  with  pas- 
sion. Even  from  the  cab  Mark  could  see,  by  the 
light  of  the  arc  lamp  above  them,  the  abnormal  glit- 
ter in  the  rolling  darting  eyes.  He  preached  a 
gospel  that,  beginning  with  a  germ  of  love,  had 
grown  in  him  into  a  creed  of  hate.  It  was  a  ram- 
bling incoherent  harangue,  full  of  bitter  denuncia- 
tion and  vague  generalities  that  never  came  to  a 
point:  the  grotesque  but  pitiful  outpouring  of  a 
feeble  mind  obsessed  by  a  sense  of  injury  real  or 
fancied  and  cracking  under  the  effort  to  inoculate 
others  with  its  venom.  Mark  listened  a  moment. 

"The  man  must  be  mad,"  he  thought  pitifully. 

Piotr  in  his  ramblings  came  to  the  late  strike.  He 
began  a  roll-call  of  the  masters  of  the  Quinby  com- 
pany: Quinby  himself,  Henley,  Higsbee,  Hare — 

"And  Truitt!"  The  hoarse  voice  became,  if  that 
were  possible,  even  more  bitter.  He  fairly  writhed 
as  he  shrieked  out  his  charges.  "Truitt  the  wife- 
beater!  The  rounder!  With  his  women — !"  To 
Piotr  rumor,  however  exaggerated,  was  but  a  point 
from  which  to  start.  For  several  minutes  he  raved 
on,  regaling  his  audience  with  an  array  of  disgust- 
ing but  apocryphal  details  of  Truitt's  life  that  to 
his  diseased  fancy  must  have  become  proven  facts. 

"Go  tell  him  to  come  here,"  Mark  ordered  the 
cabman.  "Tell  him  his  father  is  dying." 

"Aw,  hell !"  growled  a  big  Irishman  in  the  crowd, 


THE    PRESSURE    OF    TRUTH       357 

audible  even  to  the  cab.  "Shut  up !  Truitt's  th'  only 
wan  av  th'  lot  wid  bowils  t'  him." 

"Fool — fool !"  Piotr  shook  clenched  fists  at  the 
Irishman.  "Are  you  taken  in  because  he  tried  to 
stop  the  strike?  Who  was  he  working  for  then, 
you  or  Quinby?  Where  was  he  when  Henley's 
strike-breakers  came  to  steal  your  jobs  and  shoot 
down  your  women?  Where  was  his  money  when 
your  children  were  starving  for  bread  ?  Where — " 

But  the  cabman  had  reached  him  with  Mark's 
message.  For  a  moment  Piotr  stared  stupidly,  try- 
ing to  take  in  its  meaning.  Then  he  uttered  a  wild 
piercing  cry. 

"Dying!"  He  leaned  toward  the  crowd,  hands 
and  face  twitching  in  his  frenzy.  "My  father's  dy- 
ing, but  he  can  wait  while  I  tell  you  about  this  Tru- 
itt.  When  he  was  starting  out  he  came  to  our  house, 
because  my  father  took  pity  on  him.  My  father  loved 
him,  better  than  he  did  his  own  son.  He  watched 
over  him,  cared  for  him,  taught  him  all  he  knew  of 
his  trade.  .  Then  the  old  man  broke.  He  wouldn't 
have  been  old  anywhere  else,  but  he  had  burned  him- 
self up  trying  to  make  Quinby's  furnace  hells  pay. 
They  threw  him  out,  of  course — and  Truitt  took  his 
job.  Truitt — partner  of  Quinby!  The  old  man's 
heart  broke.  Then  his  mind  gave  way.  And  now 
he's  dying — do  you  know  where?  In  Rose  Alley!" 

The  crowd  had  become  very  still.  To  them,  too, 
the  tragedy  that  tortured  the  madman  was  clear; 
infinite  repetition  could  not  take  away  its  bitterness. 

"And  that  isn't   all."     The   emotional   delirium 


358    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

reached  its  climax.  "In  that  house  was  a  girl — just 
an  ignorant  Hunky  girl  but  the  kind  men  love.  And 
Truitt  made  love  to  her.  But  when  he  left  us,  he 
left  her,  too — another  broken  heart!  To  forget  him 
she  married  a  worthless  rummy  she  had  to  leave. 
Then  she  went  out  into  the  city  to  make  her  own  liv- 
ing— you  know  the  fight  and  the  price  women  must 
pay  or  go  down.  And  she — the  girl  he  wouldn't 
take  up  with  him — she  paid — " 

Bewilderment  choked  back  the  stream  of  words. 
For  a  man — whose  pallor  was  not  due  to  the  garish 
arc  lamp — had  leaped  from  the  cab  and  was  elbow- 
ing a  way  swiftly  toward  him.  The  crowd  fell  back 
to  let  the  man  through,  then  pressed  closer.  Only 
Piotr  and  the  Irishman  recognized  him.  Mark 
caught  Piotr  by  the  arm  and  jerked  him  roughly 
from  the  box. 

The  Irishman's  heavy  hand  fell  on  Mark's  shoul- 
der. "Let  be,  sor."  Then  he  fell  back  before  the 
livid  countenance  Mark  turned  on  him. 

"Keep  out.  I'll  do  him  no  harm.  I'm  only  taking 
him  to  his  father,  where  his  place  is  instead  of  here 
blackguarding  women  he  isn't  fit  to  touch." 

Piotr  jerked  his  arm  free.  "I  won't  go  with 
you!" 

But  the  Irishman  caught  him.  "Ye'll  go  as 
Misther  Truitt  tells  yez.  I'm  thinkin5  he's  just 
loony,  sor." 

Together  he  and  Mark  dragged  Piotr  to  the  cab 
and  forced  him  within.  Piotr,  dazed  by  Mark's  ap- 
pearance, resisted  but  feebly.  Mark  got  in  after 


359 

him,  closed  the  door  and  the  cab  started.  The  crowd 
gaped  wonderingly. 

For  several  blocks  Mark  fought  to  stifle  the  anger 
Piotr's  words  had  evoked.  Anger  was  conquered. 
But  a  fear  remained.  A  question  trembled  on  his 
lips. 

Then,  as  they  passed  a  brightly  lighted  saloon,  he 
saw  by  the  reflection  the  miserable  cowering  figure 
before  him,  the  ugly  twitching  face  and  glittering 
eyes. 

"He  is  mad,"  he  muttered.  "It  was  just  one  of 
his  ravings." 

Before  the  grim  majesty  of  approaching  death 
even  Piotr's  madness  was  abashed.  The  supreme 
consciousness  received  back  the  atom  that,  when 
imprisoned  in  flesh,  had  been  Roman.  It  was  Kazia 
who  saw. 

"He  is  dead." 

The  Matka  uttered  a  low  moan,  then  became  si- 
lent again,  resumed  her  rigid  gazing  at  the  not  less 
still  body.  Piotr's  hand  passed  over  his  eyes  in  a 
bewildered  gesture.  The  woman  who  kept  the  door 
made  the  sign  of  the  cross  and  went  quietly  out. 

Kazia  bent  over  to  kiss  Roman's  forehead.  Then 
Piotr  came  out  of  his  daze.  He  caught  her  roughly 
and  drew  her  back. 

"No!" 

"Piotr!" 

"You're  not  fit  to  touch  him." 

She  turned  and  went  slowly  into  the  kitchen. 
Piotr  followed. 


360     THE   AMBITION    OF   MARK   TRUITT 

He  confronted  her  and  Mark.  "You  can  go  now, 
both  of  you." 

"Oh,  Piotr,  not  now!"  Kazia  began  pleadingly. 
"The  Matka  needs  me  and — " 

"We  need  nothing  from  you.  We  weren't  good 
enough  for  you  once.  You  left  us  to  be  a  fine  lady. 
Now  we  don't  want  you." 

"But  I  came  back  and  you  wouldn't  let  me  stay." 

"Yes,  when  you  found  that  Jim  Whiting  couldn't 
give  you  what  you  wanted.  You  thought  you  could 
use  us  then — as  he  did."  He  nodded  toward  Mark. 
"How,"  his  teeth  bared  in  an  ugly  accusing  leer, 
"how  did  the  Hunky  girl  get  to  be  such  a  fine  lady  ?" 

"Be  still!"  Mark  stepped  close  to  him,  sternly. 
"Isn't  there  any  decency  in  that  cracked  mind  of 
yours?  Remember  she  came  to  them"  he  pointed 
toward  the  little  bedroom,  "when  they  needed  some 
one.  You  were  out  rilling  the  streets  with  your 
blackguardly  rant.  And  whose  money  do  you 
think  had  to  keep  them  alive  because  you  wouldn't 
do  a  man's  work?" 

"A  man's  work!"  Piotr  laughed,  a  horrible 
startling  cackle.  "To  a  cracked  brain  that  isn't  to 
betray  and  gouge  and  drive — "  He  broke  off.  "Do 
you  mean  it  was  her  money  ?" 

"Who  else  would  have  cared  ?" 

Piotr  went  back  into  the  death  room,  clutched  his 
mother  by  the  shoulder  and  shook  her  cruelly.  "Tell 
me,"  he  cried  in  her  tongue,  "have  you  taken  money 
from  her — that  woman — when  I  told  you  what  she 
was?" 


THE    PRESSURE    OF    TRUTH       361 

The  Matka  shrank  back  from  his  vehemence.  "I 
had  to — to  buy  things  to  keep  him  alive." 

Piotr,  releasing  her,  stared,  his  mouth  working 
queerly.  "Even  you're  against  me." 

He  went  again  slowly  into  the  kitchen,  taking  up 
his  hat  from  the  table.  He  did  not  stop  until  he 
reached  the  door.  There  he  turned,  facing  Kazia. 

"You  can  have  her  now.    I'm  going." 

For  an  instant,  as  he  looked  at  the  pale  tired 
woman  before  him,  the  wide-reaching  hate  seemed 
to  falter.  "You  were  always  against  me,"  he  whim- 
pered, "but  never  against  him,  whatever  he  did. 
He's  had  everything.  I've  had  nothing.  I  suppose 
he  has  you,  too."  The  hateful  leer  returned.  "Are 
you  one  of  his  women  now?  ...  I  see  you 
are .  You — harlo  t !" 

He  was  gone.  From  without  came  his  cackling 
laugh. 

Mark  and  Kazia  had  forgotten  death.  They  stood, 
stricken  mute  by  a  venomous  word  from  a  man 
whom  they  had  passed  carelessly  over  but  whose 
wretched  story  was  inextricably  tangled  in  theirs. 
When  their  eyes  met,  it  was  in  fear 

"He's  crazy,"  he  muttered.   "Don't  mind  him." 

"Yes,  he's  crazy.    And  I'm  what  he  said." 

"No,  no !    That  isn't  true." 

"It  is  true."  She  took  a  step  toward  him,  looking 
searchingly  into  his  eyes  as  though  she  would  read 
the  very  soul  of  him.  "Would  you  marry  me  now  ?" 

He  was  caught  off  his  guard.  His  hesitation  was 
involuntary  and  for  but  an  instant. 


362    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

"I  would,"  he  answered  firmly,  too  firmly.  "I 
will." 

".You  see."  She  could  not  become  whiter,  but 
the  weariness  in  her  eyes  deepened  until  he  knew  he 
could  never  forget  that  look.  "Your  instinct  was 
to  say  no.  You  believe  it  is  true.  Let  us  make  no 
more  pretty  lies." 

"Then,"  he  said,  "I'm  to  blame,  too.  And  there's 
only  one  thing  to  do." 

"There's  nothing  to  do,"  she  answered  dully.  "I 
thought  you  understood.  Nothing  we  can  do  can 
change  what  I  have  been."  With  an  effort  she  re- 
called herself  to  the  situation.  "You  had  better  go 
now.  I  must  take  care  of  the  Matka.  Will  you 
please  telephone  to  the  hospital  that  I  shan't  be  back 
to-night?" 

"But  I  can't  leave  you  alone  here,  while  Piotr's  at 
large.  I'm  going  out  to  arrange  for  to-morrow. 
Then  I'll  come  back  here." 

"It  may  be  best,"  she  agreed. 

Two  hours  later  he  returned  and  rapped  lightly. 
Receiving  no  answer,  he  tried  the  door.  It  opened 
and  he  entered  quietly. 

Hanka  lay  on  a  narrow  cot,  in  the  sleep  of  ex- 
haustion. In  a  chair  by  the  table,  head  pillowed  on 
one  arm,  Kazia,  too,  slept.  She  stirred  uneasily  as 
he  entered,  then  became  still.  He  tiptoed  to  another 
chair  and  began  his  lonely  watch. 

Began  anew  his  everlasting  problem  solving,  learn- 
ing how  little  of  the  old  man  Truitt  had  died  during 


THE    PRESSURE   OF   TRUTH       363 

the  sentimental  and  purposeful  wanderings  of  the 
past  two  years.  For,  during  the  moment  of  hesita- 
tion when  he  had  been  caught  off  guard — against 
himself  as  well  as  against  her — he  had  seen  a  truth 
that  made  his  soul  writhe  in  shame.  After  all  his 
rhapsodic  love-making,  despite  all  he  had  taken,  he 
did  not  love  Kazia.  Love  might  give  what  she  had 
given;  it  could  never  accept.  Desire  could  weave  a 
deceptive  spell  for  a  time,  but  desire  was  not  love. 
He  had  sought  not  her  but  the  fleshly  prison — never, 
he  thought,  had  hungry  erring  body  been  so  prison- 
like — that  held  her.  And  desire,  as  always,  eaten 
up  by  its  own  fires,  was  dying. 

And  the  mystery  he  had  sensed  on  that  first  night 
when  the  passionate  idyl  had  begun!  It  returned 
to  complicate  the  new  problem  Rose  Alley  had  pre- 
sented. That  evening  the  veil  had  almost  been 
drawn  aside.  .  .  .  "She  paid—"  "Harlot!" 
"Nothing  can  change  what  I've  been."  .  .  .  The 
words  kept  ringing  harshly  in  his  ears,  torturing  him 
with  their  suggestion.  What  had  she  been?  Could 
he  link  his  life,  "until  death  did  them  part,"  to  that 
of  a  woman  with  this  haunting  mystery?  What  if 
the  mystery  were  solved?  He  shrank  from  the 
choice,  the  while  despising  himself  for  his  faltering. 
Her  eyes,  never  reproaching  or  accusing  but  only 
suffering,  were  before  him  always. 

"Is  this  the  Truitt  that  would  build  happy  cities?" 
he  cried  to  himself.  "What  am  I  to  demand  perfec- 
tion in  others?  I've  taken  too  much.  I  will  make 


364    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

reparation.  Am  I  a  coward  to  take  and  fear  pay- 
ment? All  my  life  I've  been  such  a  coward — I  will 
be  no  longer." 

Easy  words!  .  .  .  What  reparation  could  he 
make  ?  A  name — nothing !  Not  by  the  mouthings 
of  a  priest  nor  by  willing  it  could  he  transform  a 
dead  passion  into  a  living  love.  It  all  came  back  to 
that :  he  had  nothing  to  give  her.  And  she  was  not 
now  seeking  to  be  deceived.  By  her  own  love — he 
never  questioned  it — she  could  judge  his  lack. 

The  night  seemed  endless.  To  sit  motionless, 
looking  at  the  relaxed  forlorn  figure  she  made,  be- 
came impossible.  He  rose  and  crept  silently  into  the 
room  where  Roman  lay.  A  single  candle  was  burn- 
ing low  in  its  socket.  By  its  faint  flickering  glow 
the  waxen  face  and  folded  hands  seemed  not  dead, 
but  only  at  peace.  Mark  looked  long  at  him,  as 
though  Roman  held  the  answer  to  his  questions. 
Once  he  leaned  over,  whispering. 

"What  have  you  found,  Roman?  Is  it  simple 
there?  Is  there  a  new  birth  in  which  mistakes  can 
be  paid  for?  ...  I  want  to  pay." 

There  was  no  one  to  see.  He  did  what  he  had 
never  done  before :  he  fell  to  his  knees  by  the  dead 
man's  bed  and  prayed  passionately  for  a  miracle,  an 
inspiration  of  love — a  love  so  big  that  it  could  take 
no  account  of  mysteries  or  sin,  so  deep  that  it  would 
grip  his  innermost  soul. 

After  a  long  time  he  raised  his  head,  as  if  to 
catch  the  answer.  But  all  he  heard  was  the  crash 
and  rumble  of  the  near-by  mills. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

PAYMENT 

IT  WAS  two  days  after  the  funeral.  Mark  had 
seen  Kazia  but  for  a  few  minutes,  merely  long 
enough  to  learn  her  new  plans,  and  then  Hanka 
had  been  present.  Kazia  proposed  to  take  care  of 
her,  and  that  they  might  not  have  to  be  apart,  to 
give  up  her  fine  position  at  the  hospital ;  she  thought 
she  could  obtain  a  new  one  that  would  take  up  only 
her  days.  She  had,  of  course,  to  find  a  new  apart- 
ment. 

"If  you  will  let  me,"  he  had  suggested,  "I'll  try  to 
arrange  with  the  agent  to  have  you  stay  on  here." 

"No,"  she  had  answered.  He  had  understood :  she 
did  not  want  to  stay,  she  wanted  around  her  the 
fewest  possible  reminders  of  a  chapter  that,  both  of 
them  felt  in  their  hearts,  was  drawing  to  an  end. 

He  believed  it  as  he  set  out,  for  the  last  time, 
to  the  little  apartment  that  had  been  the  scene  of  a 
few  rapturous  hours  and  many  brave  attempts  to 
pretend  a  fervor  that  did  not  exist.  He  limped, 
with  a  slow  heavy  gait  that  hinted,  not  falsely,  of 
despondency ;  facing  the  fact  that  had  dragged  him 
down  from  the  peak  whence  he  had  been  surveying 
his  "big  idea".  He,  not  less  than  she,  although  in  a 

365 


366    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK   TRUITT 

different  way,  would  be  hurt  by  the  closing  of  the 
chapter.  He  would  have  given  all  he  possessed, 
even  his  happy  city,  to  know  that  they  could  write  a 
new  and  a  finer  one.  And  the  matter  had  grown  as 
he  brooded  upon  it :  all  the  issues  of  his  life  seemed 
gathered  here  for  decision  against  him. 

Once  before  a  woman — loveless,  grasping,  hard — • 
had  stood  for  the  failure  of  things  he  had  desired. 
Now  another,  all  that  the  first  was  not,  summed  up 
his  failure.  He  could,  it  seemed,  be  true  in  nothing, 
could  not  be  trusted  to  recognize  the  truth;  but, 
creature  of  his  gusty  passions,  must  with  distorted 
vision  ever  mistake  romance  for  reality,  tinsel  for 
fine  gold,  the  sophistry  of  immediate  desire  for  wis- 
dom. To  possess  was  to  taste  a  stale  and  bitter 
morsel.  He  was  incomplete;  nothing  that  he  did 
was  complete. 

This  was  the  man  who  dared,  a  moody  fickly 
judge,  to  criticize  life,  its  spectacles  and  cruelties 
and  follies — the  Unities  and  Henleys  and  Quinbys, 
all  of  whom  at  least  had  the  virtue  of  consistency! 
This  was  the  man  who  dreamed  of  founded  happy 
cities!  No  doubt  his  "big  idea,"  too,  was  but  a 
phantasy  that,  followed  for  a  while,  would  be  re- 
vealed as  a  fool's  vagary. 

It  is  a  sad  thing  for  a  man  to  lose  faith  in  himself 
and  his  inspirations. 

But  that  was  not  the  last  bitter  drop  in  his  cup. 
For  this  inconstant  dreamer  had  taken  toll  of  many 
others.  Marcel  and  Suzon,  long  since  lost  to  his 
sight  in  the  mazes  of  the  city,  their  simple  hearts 


PAYMENT  367 

wrung  by  a  needless  parting;  Roman,  his  stricken 
body  a  stair  for  another's  climb ;  a  cheated  Timothy 
Woodhouse ;  even  Unity,  meritless  indeed,  but  ruth- 
lessly cast  off  because  she  had  ceased  to  please  him 
and  to  make  way  for  another;  the  thousands  of  men 
and  women  whose  needs  and  labors  and  stolen  re- 
ward had  pieced  together  his  fortune :  all  these  had 
paid  that  Mark  Truitt  might  follow  his  various  de- 
sires. And  last  of  all  Kazia,  the  loving  erring 
woman,  like  him  in  that  nothing  must  stand  between 
her  and  the  thing  she  wanted  but  unlike  him  in  that 
she  knelt  to  a  fixed  star,  craving  the  love  he  owed 
and  could  not  give.  Their  payment  stood,  an  ugly 
fact  that  reparation  could  not  destroy,  though  he 
multiplied  good  works  until  their  summit  reached 
the  sky. 

So  he  went  to  Kazia,  wanting,  needing  to  love  her, 
but  with  a  heart  empty  of  all  save  repentance  and 
self-distrust 

All  day  Hanka  had  been  alone  in  the  dismantled 
flat,  thinking  not  of  him  who  had  gone  but  of  the 
woman  who  had  assumed  her  protection.  Often  her 
head  shook  in  troubled  gesture.  Hanka  had  not  lost 
the  habit  of  seeing  and  understanding  many  things 
from  her  shadowy  corner.  Not  out  of  grief  for  the 
dead,  she  knew,  had  the  look  that  haunted  her  come 
into  Kazia's  eyes. 

The  dinner  was  over,  the  dishes  washed  and  put 
away ;  this  being  part  of  Hanka's  share  in  the  new 
division  of  labor.  She  went  into  the  little  bedroom 
whither  Kazia  had  gone  to  dress.  But  at  the  door 


368    THE  AMBITION  OF  MARK  TRUITT 

she  stopped,  unnoticed,  looking  at  the  figure  that  lay 
motionless  and  face  downward  on  the  bed.  She 
started  to  steal  away,  then  turned  again  and  went 
timidly  to  the  bedside.  She  laid  a  gentle  hand  on 
Kazia's  hair. 

"Little  Kazia,"  she  murmured,  half  frightened  at 
her  boldness,  "what  is  troubling  you  ?" 

"Nothing,  Matka,"  came  the  muffled  answer. 

"Is  it  because  of  me?  I  don't  want  to  be  a  bur- 
den. I  can  go." 

"No,  no !    You  mustn't  leave  me.    I'm  just  tired." 

"Heart  tired.    Is  it  because  of  him — your  lover?" 

"I  have  no  lover." 

Kazia  rose  wearily,  and  going  to  the  mirror,  be- 
gan to  take  down  her  hair.  The  thick  soft  tresses 
fell  tumbling  around  her.  Hanka,  in  troubled  won- 
der, watched  the  round  arm  that  wielded  the  comb, 
the  smooth  firm  shoulders.  At  Kazia's  age  Hanka 
had  already  begun  to  wither  into  an  uncomeliness 
that  men  passed  by  undesiring.  She  went  over  to 
the  dressing  woman  and  touched  timidly  the  firm, 
still  youthful  flesh. 

"You  are  like  your  mother." 

"What  was  she  like?" 

"She  was  like  you."  Kazia  did  not  smile.  "Men 
saw  her  and  wanted  her." 

The  comb  became  still.  "Did  she — did  she  love 
my  father?" 

"Such  a  love  I  have  never  seen." 

"Was  she  happy?" 


PAYMENT  369 

"For  a  little.  As  are  the  birds  in  spring.  Until 
after  you  came." 

"And  then?" 

"He  was  a  patriot,  a  leader,  all  for  Poland.  He 
was  arrested  and  was  to  be  shot.  The  Cossack  offi- 
cer who  held  him  saw  her  and  wanted  her.  To  buy 
her  lover's  life  she  gave  herself." 

"Did  she  die  then?" 

"Death  is  not  so  easy.  She  brought  her  baby  to 
us  and  went  away  with  the  Cossack.  We  never 
heard  of  her  again." 

"And  her — her  lover — was  he  willing — " 

"He  did  not  know  until  after.  Then  he  said  it 
was  a  noble  sacrifice.  He  took  it — for  Poland." 

"Oh,  these  men  with  their  big  cruel  ideas  that  take 
no  account  of  women!  He  wasn't  worthy  of  her. 
She  was  a  fool." 

"She  loved." 

And  suddenly  Kazia  fell  forward  on  the  table, 
face  buried  in  her  arms. 

For  a  little  Hanka  watched  her,  then  stole 
quietly  away  to  the  kitchen.  Her  heart  ached  but 
she  did  not  weep ;  long  since  she  had  forgotten  how, 
for  her  own  or  another's  sorrow.  And  she  had  no 
kindly  sophistry  with  which  to  anoint  a  troubled 
heart.  People  sinned,  they  were  beaten  down,  they 
suffered;  they  could  but  endure.  She  stayed  alone 
in  the  kitchen,  even  after  she  heard  Kazia  moving 
about. 

It  had  been  dark  almost  an  hour  when  the  bell 


370    THE  AMBITION  OF  MARK  TRUITT 

rang.  Hanka  heard  Kazia  going  to  the  door  and  a 
startled  exclamation  answered  by  a  mellifluous 
voice  Hanka  did  not  know.  The  visitor  was  admitted 
and  taken  into  the  sitting-room.  To  the  kitchen 
came  the  murmur  of  Kazia's  voice  and  his,  chiefly 
his. 

He  had  been  there  but  a  few  minutes  when  his 
voice  changed.  It  became  eager,  with  an  under- 
tone that  perturbed  Hanka  strangely.  Once  Kazia 
uttered  a  low  hurt  cry.  Hanka  rose  and  crept  along 
the  little  hall.  She  crouched  in  the  darkness  near 
the  sitting-room  door,  listening  intently  and  wishing 
she  had  not  been  so  stupid  about  English. 

"Am  I  an  ogre?"  the  mellifluous  voice  was  saying. 

"I  do  not  love  you.'* 

"It  is  not  a  question  of  love.  I  am  not  old,  but 
I  have  lived  long  enough  to  prick  that  illusion.  We 
scientists  know  what  love  is." 

"I  don't  care  for  you  in  any  way,"  Kazia  an- 
swered coldly.  "Mr.  Quinby,  you  oughtn't  to  be 
here.  A  man  in  your  position — " 

"My  dear  lady,  let  me  remind  you  that  the  interest 
of  a  man  in  my  position  is  not  to  be  rejected  lightly. 
With  a  word  I  gave  you  the  best  position  your 
profession  offers  a  woman.  With  a  word  I  can 
take  it  away.  I  can  relieve  you  of  the  necessity  of 
working  at  all.  I  can  make  it  impossible  for  you 
to  find  work  in  this  city." 

"Threats—" 

"My  dear  lady!"  the  stranger's  voice  protested. 
"I  would  not  do  that.  I  would  harm  no  one.  I  am 


PAYMENT  371 

a  tender-hearted  man.  I,  too,  suffer,  if  by  chance 
others  suffer  through  me."  The  voice,  vibrant  with 
emotion,  would  have  wrung  tears  of  sympathy  from 
a  stone.  But  Hanka,  as  we  have  seen,  could  not  weep. 
"I  am  only  trying  to  show  that  those  who  enlist  my 
interest  do  not  lose  by  it." 

"So  you  think  I  am  for  sale?" 

"Forgive  me,  my  dear,"  said  Quinby,  "but  that  is 
gross.  Say  rather  that,  since  you  have  struck  a 
responsive  chord  in  my  breast,  it  will  be  my  pleasure 
to  be  guardian  of  your  welfare,  to  lift  you  out  of  the 
sordid  struggle  for  existence.  And  have  I  not 
proved  that?  You  lay  in  the  hollow  of  my  hand. 
With  a  breath  I  could  have  destroyed  your  reputa- 
tion. But  I  kept  silence,  I  advanced  your  interests, 
I  held  you  tenderly  in  my  heart.  Ah !"  In  his  agita- 
tion he  began  to  pace  swiftly  back  and  forth  across 
the  little  room.  "Words  are  weak.  What  can  I  say 
to  convince  you  of  the  hold  you  have  taken  on  me 
ever  since  that  fateful  morning  in  Ottawa?  Day  and 
night,  on  land  and  sea,  you  have  been  with  me  in 
spirit,  luring  me,  bidding  me  come,  to  forget  my 
projects  and  the  world's  ingratitude  in  your  charms. 
I  fought  against  it.  But  in  vain — you  have  been  too 
much  for  me.  I  have  come.  Woman — "  He  halted 
before  her.  "Woman,  you  have  bewitched  me.  I 
want  you." 

So  might  a  sultan  have  summoned  a  woman  of 
the  people  to  his  harem. 

Hanka  understood  at  least  his  last  words  and  she 
understood  his  tone.  She  crept  closer  and  through 


372    THE  AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

the  crack  of  the  sitting-room  door  saw  Kazia  elude 
Quinby's  outstretched  arms,  saw  her,  standing  just 
out  of  his  reach,  stare  at  him  with  a  strange  rapt 
expression  as  if  something  about  the  flushed  man 
before  her  or  something  he  suggested  had  thrown 
a  spell  over  her.  Hanka's  heart  sank.  What  could 
her  simple  mind  know  of  the  mad  thought  whirling 
through  Kazia's? 

At  the  same  moment  she  heard  a  halting  step  on 
the  stairway.  She  opened  the  outer  door  and  went 
out  to  meet  Mark  Truitt,  whispering  excitedly  to 
him  in  Polish.  When  he,  astonished  by  her  appear- 
ance and  emotion,  would  have  spoken,  she  clapped  a 
hand  over  his  mouth,  and  clutching  him  by  a  sleeve, 
drew  him  into  the  hall.  She  pointed  through  the 
crack. 

Again  Quinby  reached  toward  Kazia  and  again 
she  recoiled. 

"Don't — don't  touch  me." 

"Why  do  you  rebuff  me  ?  You're  not  an  ignorant 
child.  You  must  have  known  what  my  interest  in 
the  hospital  and  in  you  this  year  has  meant.  You 
wouldn't  have  taken  my  help  unless  you  were  willing 
to  give  me  what  I  want." 

"What  is  it — what  is  it  you  want?" 

"I  want  you  to  be  to  me  what  you  have  been  to 
Truitt." 

"And  if—if  I  refuse?" 

"I  have  never  yet  told  that  I  caught  Truitt  and  a 
sun-browned  woman  alone  in  an  Ottawa  hotel  under 
circumstances — I  have  no  reason  to  love  him.  I 


PAYMENT  373 

have  refrained  from  telling  only  for  your  sake.  I — • 
Why  do  you  force  me  to  say  this?  I  have  no  wish 
to  be  brutal  to  you.  Seeing  you  has  turned  my  head. 
But  you  will  not — surely  you  can  not  refuse." 

She  dropped  back  into  a  chair,  covering  her  face 
with  her  hands.  When  she  looked  up,  she  wore 
again  the  strange  rapt  expression. 

"You  said,"  she  whispered  chokingly,  "you  said — • 
you  would  pay." 

"Yes,  yes !"  he  cried  eagerly. 

"You  are  trying  to  rob  Mark  Truitt — to  force 
him  out  of  the  company.  Will  you — give  that  up  ?" 
Still  in  the  same  broken  whisper. 

"Even  that.    You  are  worth  everything." 

"And  will  you  give  me  time — to  send  him  away — '• 
and  never  let  him  know  ?" 

"It  is  for  you  to  make  conditions.  Ah!  my 
dear—" 

In  triumph  Quinby  stepped  toward  her  and  bent 
over  to  take  her  hand. 

"Don't  do  that !"  said  a  voice  behind  him. 

Quinby  whirled.  For  a  long  silent  minute  the  trio 
faced  one  another. 

Then  Mark,  white  of  face,  hands  working  con- 
vulsively, went  slowly  to  the  stupefied  Quinby,  who 
seemed  turned  to  stone.  He  did  not  resist  even 
when  Mark's  hand  leaped  up  and  caught  him  cruelly 
by  the  throat.  He  was  pressed  back  until  his  back 
met  the  wall.  The  grip  tightened.  Ouinby's  face 
grew  purple.  He  squirmed  and  tried  to  cry  out,  but 
only  a  hoarse  gurgle  resulted. 


374    THE  AMBITION  OF  MARK  TRUITT 

Kazia  came  to  herself.  She  sprang  to  her  feet 
and  caught  Mark's  arm,  breaking  his  grip. 

"Don't  hurt  him.    He's  not  worth  it." 

Gently,  without  taking  his  eyes  from  Quinby, 
Mark  freed  his  arm  from  her  clasp.  But  he  did  not 
touch  Quinby  again.  The  first  murderous  impulse 
died.  He  turned  contemptuously  away  from  him. 

Quinby,  released  from  the  cruel  hand  and  eyes, 
started  across  the  room.  Mark  whirled  upon  him 
once  more. 

"Stop!" 

Quinby  stopped.  "This,"  he  said  weakly,  "is  a 
trap." 

"Set  by  yourself."  Mark  turned  to  Kazia  with  a 
helpless  mirthless  laugh.  "What  is  my  cue  ?  Shall 
I  kick  him  down-stairs — or  spring  his  dirty  trap?" 

"Let  him  go,"  she  answered  listlessly. 

Mark  shook  his  head.  "Not  without  paying.  He 
said,"  grimly,  "he  was  willing  to  pay." 

"I'm  not  afraid  of  you,"  Quinby  muttered  a 
feeble  defiance.  "What  can  you  say  of  me  that  isn't 
true  of  you?" 

"Ah!"  Mark  drew  a  sharp  whistling  breath. 
Quinby  shrank  back,  his  hands  going  protectively  to 
his  aching  throat.  "Now  you  shall  pay.  You — " 
He  broke  off  with  a  gesture  of  disgust.  "I  find  I've 
no  stomach  for  blackmail  just  now.  I'll  telephone 
Henley  to  come  over.  He'll  know  how  to  handle 
this  situation." 

Then  Quinby  was  indeed  fear-struck.  He  clutched 
Mark's  arm  tightly.  "Don't  tell  him !"  he  quavered. 


PAYMENT  375 

"We  can  settle  this  ourselves.  I  didn't  really  intend 
to  force  you  out  of  the  company,  only  to — to  fright- 
en you  a  little." 

Mark  jerked  his  arm  free.  "So  you're  a  coward 
as  well  as  a  fraud !  But  I  knew  that  before.  This  is 
too  sickening.  You'd  better  go." 

Quinby  started  again  to  go. 

"Wait!" 

Quinby  waited. 

"You  seem  to  be  afraid  of  Henley.  You  have 
reason.  To-morrow  at  ten-thirty  you  have  an  en- 
gagement to  meet  him  at  his  office — I  have  just 
made  it  for  both  of  you.  At  eleven  /  will  meet  him. 
You  know  best  what  Henley  in  his  present  mood 
will  do  if  he  gets  wind  of  your  latest  adventure  in 
philanthropy.  Now  go." 

Quinby  went.  The  next  morning,  prompt  on  the 
hour,  he  kept  his  engagement  with  Henley. 

A  weakness  for  epigrams  has  defeated  more  than 
one  fair  project.  After  a  discreet  interval — long 
enough,  as  he  thought,  for  the  interment  of  the  dead 
past — Jeremiah  Quinby  sought  to  revive  the  paleon- 
tological  propaganda.  He  found  that  for  once  the 
public  memory  was  long  and  laid  more  stress  on  the 
fateful  twins  of  production  than  on  icthyosauri  and 
kindred  monsters.  The  air  was  darkened  with  poi- 
soned barbs  of  satire  and  derision.  There  fell  a 
great  philanthropist,  pierced  to  the  heart.  That  is 
to  say,  Quinby  retired  from  the  realm  of  beneficence 
and  his  rival  reigned  absolute  once  more. 

A  heavy  troubled  silence  was  in  the  little  room. 


376    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

Kazia  stood  passively  by  the  table,  waiting  for  Mark 
to  speak.  After  a  long  while  he  raised  his  eyes  to 
hers. 

"Kazia,  you  poor  romantic  fool !  Did  you  think 
any  amount  of  money  was  worth  that — even  if  he 
had  kept  his  word?  When  I  think  what — oh,  how 
could  you  think  of  it!" 

"I  wanted,"  she  answered  in  a  queer  lifeless 
voice,  as  if  benumbed  by  this  crisis  into  which  they 
had  stumbled,  "I  wanted  to  do  one  thing  for  you 
— and  your  happy  city." 

"My  happy  city!  What  happiness  could  it  have 
had,  built  on  that?  And  I — hadn't  you  given  me 
enough  ?" 

"I  gave  you  only  love." 

"Only—!" 

"It  was  all  I  had  to  give.    It  wasn't  enough." 

"I  wish  I  could  have  given  as  much  as  you."  The 
wistful  words  slipped  out. 

He  stepped  closer  to  her. 

"Kazia,  this  has  got  to  end." 

"Yes." 

"You  must  marry  me  to-morrow." 

Life,  and  with  it  pain,  flickered  once  more. 

"You  are  trying  to  give  something  now.  But  I'm 
glad  you  said  that." 

"I'm  asking  you  to  give  something  more.  You 
will?" 

"Why  do  you  ask  it?" 

"Because  I've  hurt  you  enough.     I  did  hurt  you 


PAYMENT  377 

when  I  let  you — led  you  to  sin,  even  though  we 
kept  it  a  secret  from  the  world.  I  want  to  make  you 
happy — you  said  yourself  we've  broken  a  law.  I 
want  happiness — and  I  can't  have  it,  knowing  that 
for  all  I've  taken  from  you  I've  given  nothing." 

She  tried  to  smile ;  the  sight  of  it  cut  to  his  heart. 
"Every  reason  but  the  one.  But  I'm  glad  you 
wouldn't  lie  to  me  now."  The  smile  faded.  "You 
see.  I  can't." 

"Kazia,  dear,"  he  pleaded,  "you  mustn't,  you  can't 
refuse.  All  the  rest  of  our  lives  hangs  on  this.  We 
can't  sin  any  longer.  Don't  you  see,  the  freedom  in 
love  we  dreamed  could  never  bring  a  lasting  content  ? 
Love  is  more  than  a  pretty  holiday  in  the  woods. 
It's  a  force  with  a  purpose  we  can't  ignore  without 
being  hurt.  We've  taken  it  and  we  can't  shirk  its 
responsibilities.  Come,  dear!  We  started  wrong — 
let's  begin  over  again.  Let's  give  love  a  new  birth." 

His  voice  rang  with  a  longing  she  could  not  un- 
derstand, but  he  could  not  touch  her.  She  shook 
her  head  spiritlessly. 

"There  can  be  no  new  birth  so  long  as  there  is 
memory.  You  could  never  forget  that  I — that  I  am 
not  clean" 

"Do  you  think  me  so  small  as  to  hold  my  own 
fault  against  you?  It  is  my  sin,  too."  He  stepped 
closer,  reaching  out  his  arms  to  take  her.  "Come, 
dear,  your  poor  little  reasons  aren't  enough." 

She  shrank  away  from  his  clasp,  trembling.  Into 
the  tired  white  face  came  a  look  of  fear  and  despair. 


378    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

She  glanced  this  way  and  that,  as  though  she  sought 
an  escape.  Her  hands  went  to  her  face.  Then  she 
forced  them  down  and  her  eyes  to  his. 

"I  thought — I  thought  you  understood.  .  .  .  I — 
I  wasn't  clean — before  we  sinned.  The  doctor  who 
helped  me,  I — "  She  could  say  no  more. 

Suspicion  had  not  prepared  him  for  this.  He 
stared  foolishly  at  her,  showing  how  he  recoiled 
from  the  fact  her  broken  words  had  revealed.  He 
did  not  then  think  it  strange  that  the  shame  of  a 
woman  he  did  not  love  should  stab  so  deeply. 

"Kazia,  how  could  you — how  could  you !" 

After  a  while  he  forgot  his  own  pain  a  little  in 
pity  for  the  silent  stricken  woman.  Again  his  arms 
reached  out  for  her  and  would  not  be  denied. 

"It  must  make  no  difference."  His  sternness  was 
all  for  himself.  "What  am  I  to  blame  you?  You 
sold  your  body  to  live.  I  gave  my  soul  to  feel  others 
squirming  under  my  feet.  You  hurt  only  yourself. 
I've  hurt  every  one  I  touched.  I  hurt  you.  If  I 
hadn't  been  a  coward  years  ago  when  we  first  loved, 
you  would  never  have  been  tempted.  Your  sin  is 
only  a  part  of  mine.  It  is  you  who  have  most  to 
forgive." 

Slowly  she  raised  her  head  to  look  at  him.  "And 
you,"  came  a  broken  incredulous  whisper,  "and  you 
would  marry  me — even  now?" 

"All  the  more  now !" 

For  an  instant  a  faint  pitiable  hope,  defying 
knowledge,  shone  in  her  eyes.  "Have  I  been  mis- 
taken? Only  love  could  ignore — ah!  don't  lie  to 


PAYMENT  379 

me  now.    It  wouldn't  be  kindness.    Is  it  just  pay — 
or  love?" 

He  tried  to  look  away  from  her  and  could  not. 
Her  eyes  held  his,  seeking  through  them  to  hunt 
out  the  last  truth  hidden  in  his  soul.  With  a  rough 
convulsive  movement  he  drew  her  head  down  on  his 
shoulder. 

"How  can  I  know  what  it  is?  It  must  be  love, 
since  I  need  you  and  want  to  make  you  happy.  If 
it  isn't  now,  surely  love  will  come  when  we  start 
right.  Kazia,  don't  refuse  me  this  chance  to  make 
up  to  you  a  little  of  the  harm  I've  done  you." 

Her  answer  was  a  stifled  sob.  He  felt  her  body 
relax;  her  head  rested  heavily  on  his  shoulder. 

She  released  herself.  He  did  not  try  to  hold  her. 
They  faced  each  other  in  a  heavy  throbbing  silence. 

His  soul  quivered  with  the  cruelty  of  it;  it  would 
have  been  infinitely  easier  for  him  if  she  had  been 
the  unfaithful  one.  The  sight  of  her,  passive,  utter- 
ing no  reproach,  dumbly  enduring,  burned  into  his 
memory,  another  item  in  the  indelible  record  of 
havoc  wrought  by  his  heedless  desire.  His  words 
echoed  mockingly  in  his  ears,  torturing  him  with 
their  hopeless  futility. 

"You  will  not?" 

"You  couldn't  say  it — and  I  don't  want  pay." 

The  sight  of  her  had  become  more  than  he  could 
endure.  He  turned  away  and  dropped  into  a  chair, 
letting  his  head  fall  to  the  table. 

After  a  little  he  felt  her  hand  gently  smoothing 
his  hair.  And  soon  she  began  to  speak  in  a  voice 


380     THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

unsteady  at  first  but  gathering  strength  as  she  went 
on. 

"You  mustn't  reproach  yourself.  I  know  you'd 
love  me  if  you  could.  And  you  mustn't  think  I  re- 
fuse just  for  your  sake.  I'd  do  what  you  want — 
since  you  want  it  so  much — only  it  would  be  misery 
for  me  always.  You  wouldn't  want  that.  .  .  . 
And  this — it  seems  I've  always  known  it  would 
come.  It  was  a  chance  I  took  for  a  few  months' 
happiness.  I've  had  my  happiness.  .  .  .  You 
haven't  harmed  me — I  beg  you  to  believe  you 
haven't  harmed  me." 

"Kazia— " 

But  the  hoarse  cry  died  away.  There  was  nothing 
to  say.  His  humiliation  was  complete.  Magdalen 
that  she  was,  he  looked  up  to  her  from  depths  of 
self-abasement  she  could  never  know. 

The  voice  was  growing  unsteady  again.  "When  I 
think  how  it  might  have  ended — if  you  hadn't  come 
to-night — !  I'm  glad  you  came — to  save  me  from 
— that.  .  .  .  And  now — I  think  you  had  better — 
go.  .  .  ." 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

THE   PENITENT 

IT  WAS  a  red  sunrise,  that  Sabbath  morning,  and 
the  ruddy  glow  lingered  in  the  eastern  sky  long 
after  the  sun  had  swung  clear  above  the  hills.  A 
slanting  shaft  found  his  window  and  fell  upon  him 
as  he  dreamed.  He  stirred  restively. 

He  awoke  slowly,  reluctantly,  drifting  toward 
conciousness  through  a  golden  haze  that  vibrated 
with  far-away  dwindling  harmonies.  An  heroic 
strain,  clearly  defined,  as  of  an  army  marching  with 
song  into  battle — fit  accompaniment  to  visions  such 
as  he  had  long  believed  could  never  visit  his  slumber 
again. 

The  resonance  died  away.  His  eyes  opened  to  the 
red  glory  of  the  morning,  then  quickly  closed.  He 
lay  very  still,  trying  to  call  back  the  harmonies ;  they 
seemed  strangely  familiar.  But  fancy  was  not  equal 
to  the  task. 

"Where  have  I  heard  that  before?" 

After  a  little  he  remembered:  a  youth,  full  of 
dreams  and  credulous,  joyously  facing  his  great  ad- 
venture. 

"And  to-morrow  I  set  out  on  a  new  adventure. 
It  was  a  long  way  from  there  to  here.  ...  I 


382    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

wonder,  would  any  man,  given  the  choice,  travel  his 
road  a  second  time?" 

He  rose  and  went  to  the  window,  a  man  from 
whom  the  grace  and  buoyancy  and  smooth  beauty  of 
youth  had  passed  and  to  whom  a  better  thing  had 
come.  The  dreaming  youth  had  been  a  promise. 
This  man  was  a  promise  fulfilled.  On  the  thin  angu- 
lar face,  framed  by  the  fast  graying  hair,  were  writ- 
ten proven  power  to  achieve,  strength  to  endure  even 
where  hope  did  not  sustain,  the  will  to  give. 

Two  years  had  passed,  crowded  with  effort, 
crowned  with  achievement.  From  the  window 
where  he  stood,  still  seeking  to  recover  the  lost  har- 
monies, he  could  see  the  beginning  of  his  happy  city, 
all  ready  for  the  great  experiment. 

Only  the  eye  of  hope  could  have  seen  there  the 
thriving  community  he  had  once  visualized.  It  was 
then  but  an  unimposing  village  of  simple  homes  laid 
out  on  the  southern  slope  of  the  valley  and  to  the 
windward  of  the  mills ;  in  the  matter  of  size  even  the 
old  Bethel  had  no  room  for  jealousy.  And  only  an 
expert,  crossing  the  new  bridge  and  studying  at  close 
quarters  the  compact  little  plant  on  the  northern 
bank,  would  have  found  there  a  promise  as  well 
as  the  supreme  triumph  of  a  man  whose  constructive 
gift  had  not  been  unknown. 

More  than  one  expert  had  come  to  spy  out  the 
land,  seeking  reason  to  scoff,  and  had  departed  shak- 
ing their  heads  wonderingly.  All  agreed  that,  mad 
though  the  builder  might  be  when  he  stepped  out  of 
his  own  field,  only  genius  strangely  fired  could  have 


THE    PENITENT  383 

devised  this  mechanical  masterpiece.  Some,  carried 
away  by  their  admiration,  refused  to  admit  even  a 
partial  insanity. 

But  the  man  at  the  window  took  no  pride  in  his 
achievement.  The  holy  flame  of  inspiration,  warm- 
ing genius  to  a  new  life,  had  brought  with  it  none 
of  the  joy  of  creation.  Toil,  tremendous  and  per- 
sistent though  measured  to  his  carefully  hoarded 
strength,  could  not  kindle  ardor.  Not  as  the  cru- 
sader rights  had  he  begun  to  build  his  city,  but  as 
a  sinner  whose  humbled  soul  requires  at  once  a 
torturing  penance  and  a  refuge. 

He  saw  with  fainting  hope,  with  an  eye  that  be- 
held only  the  chances  of  failure.  In  a  sense  it  had 
already  failed  for  him.  Penance  could  not  lighten 
penitence.  The  glamour  of  his  "big  idea,"  con- 
ceived in  a  romantic  sentimental  mood,  had  de- 
parted ;  nothing,  he  now  believed,  could  restore  it. 

He  bathed  and  dressed — in  the  new  bathroom  that 
was  his  one  concession  to  the  luxuriousness  of  the 
old  life — and  descended  to  the  kitchen.  The  pleas- 
ant odor  of  frying  ham  met  his  nostrils ;  there  was 
a  hotel  in  Bethel  now  at  which  the  Truitts  generally 
had  their  meals,  but  sometimes,  of  a  leisurely  Sab- 
bath morning,  Simon  still  served  as  cook. 

But  the  bent  old  man  at  the  south  window  had 
forgotten  breakfast.  For  a  little  Mark  watched 
him  without  salutation. 

"Good  morning,  father,"  he  said  at  last. 

"Good  morning,  Mark."  Simon  turned  reluc- 
tantly from  the  window.  "I  was  jest  thinkin'  it'll 


384     THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK   TRUITT 

be  twenty  years  to-morrow  ye  went  away — an'  now 
there's  that." 

"Yes.  Your  dream  has  come  true.  If  you  live 
until  to-morrow  night  you'll  have  seen  it  all — steel 
made  in  Bethel." 

"I'd  like  to  live  that  long,"  Simon  answered 
simply. 

Mark  smiled  gently.  More  than  once,  lately,  he. 
had  noted  in  Simon  signs  of  a  growing  childish- 
ness. 

"Much  longer  than  that,  I  hope.  Are  you  con- 
tent?" 

Simon  hesitated.  "I  reckon  ye  think  I'd  ought  to 
be.  It's  come  easy  to  me.  All  I  had  to  do  was  to 
think  about  it  an'  wait  fur  ye  to  build  the  mills. 
But  I  wish  I  could  give  something  to  'em." 

"You  gave  the  idea.  That's  something.  I  suppose 
a  good  idea  is  never  lost.  You  failed  but  kept  the 
idea  alive.  I  caught  it  from  you  and  built  the  mills, 
adding  my  own  idea.  The  mills  will  go  on,  though 
I  may  fail.  And  I  suppose  some  day  somebody  will 
take  up  my  idea  and  make  something  of  it."  He 
smiled  again.  "Prettily  reasoned,  anyhow." 

"Ye  say  ye  may  fail  ?" 

But  Mark  had  taken  Simon's  place  at  the  window 
and  did  not  seem  to  hear  the  question.  Simon  did 
not  press  it  then.  He  resumed  his  slow  methodical 
setting  of  the  table. 

Breakfast  ready,  they  sat  down  and  began  the 
meal  in  silence.  Mark  ate  lightly,  absently.  It  was 


THE    PENITENT  385 

not  until  they  were  about  to  rise  that  Simon  ven- 
tured to  repeat  his  question. 

"Ye  say  ye  may  fail?" 

"Eh?    Oh,  yes,  it  is  possible." 

"Why?" 

"It  may  be  the  wrong  time.  And — I  may  be  the 
wrong  man.  It's  very  likely  I'm  the  wrong  man." 

He  rose  abruptly  and  went  out  of  the  house  to- 
ward the  stable.  He  had  spoken  quietly,  but  Simon 
watched  him  with  a  troubled  frown. 

Later  he  saw  Mark  sitting  in  the  stable  doorway, 
motionless,  arms  folded,  staring  unwaveringly  into 
space.  More  than  once  Simon  had  come  upon  him 
so.  What,  the  father  now  wondered,  did  he  think, 
what  hidden  sorrow  uncover,  during  those  long 
silences?  Ever  since  Mark  had  returned,  Simon 
had  been  vaguely  sensible  of  a  suffering  to  which 
some  solacing  word  might  be  said.  But  the  word 
would  not  come  to  his  unschooled  lips. 

"I  wish,"  Simon  thought,  "I  could  give  him  some- 
thing." 

The  warm  sun  beat  upon  Mark,  but  it  had  no 
power  to  lift  the  shadow  resting  over  him.  He  was 
thinking  of  a  miracle  that  had  not  come,  seeing  a 
broken  sobbing  woman,  a  paying  Magdalen,  whose 
courage  at  the  last  moment  had  failed,  whose  eyes 
betrayed  the  hurt  she  had  had  at  his  hands. 

Two  years  had  but  burned  that  picture  the  clearer 
in  his  memory.  And  he  had  ceased  to  hope  the  mir- 
acle would  come. 


386    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

But  he  had  paid,  he  was  paying,  with  a  penitence 
that,  too,  grew  more  poignant  with  the  slow  months, 
eating  into  his  soul,  forbidding  happiness,  chaining 
his  spirit  to  the  earth  when  it  needed  to  soar.  It  did 
not  seem  strange  to  him  that  for  her,  the  last  item  in 
his  record  of  heedless  destructive  desire,  his  peni- 
tence passed  beyond  the  surface  agitation  with 
which  most  men  pay  for  their  sins.  It  did  not  seem 
to  him  unjust;  he  even  welcomed  it;  since  he  could 
make  no  reparation,  he  could  at  least  pay  a  penalty. 

It  was  a  real  suffering  Simon  sensed,  no  day  with- 
out its  hour  of  payment,  no  hour  so  heavy  as  on 
that  Sabbath  morning. 

From  across  the  town  came  a  mellow  clamor,  the 
voice  of  the  new  church  bell  calling  the  faithful. 
Its  vibrations  lingered  sweetly  on  the  morning  air, 
reminding  him  of  the  harmonies  he  had  heard  at 
sunrise. 

"A  sad  omen,"  he  thought.  "But  I've  no  right 
to  whine.  Before  every  mistake  I  was  given  the 
warning  and  the  knowledge  to  avoid  it.  And  I  didn't 
heed.  Therefore  I  pay  now." 

The  clamor  had  ceased  and  after  an  interval  re- 
sumed for  a  few  last  taps  before  he  rose  and  went 
into  the  house  for  his  hat  and  cane.  When  he 
emerged  again  he  found  Simon  sitting  on  the  front 
stoop. 

"Coin' to  church?" 

"I  guess  I'd  better." 

"Yes.  Courtney  likes  ye  to.  Do  ye,"  Simon 
asked  suddenly,  "still  believe  what  he  preaches?" 


,  THE   PENITENT  387 

Mark  hesitated  a  moment.  "I  suppose  I  never 
did.  I'd  like  to,  but  I  can't.  It  takes  a  certain  qual- 
ity of  mind,  I  suppose — or  early  habit.  I  can't  quite 
see — "  There  was  that  in  Mark's  tone  which  made 
Simon  look  up  quickly.  "I  can't  quite  see  the  logic 
of  letting  another's  suffering  pay  for  our  sins." 

"No." 

The  bell  had  become  silent,  its  last  echo  dying 
away  in  the  distance.  Into  the  ensuing  silence  rose 
the  voice  of  the  congregation  in  hymn.  .  .  . 
Love  Divine,  All  Love  Excelling  .  .  .  The  two 
men  listened  until  the  hymn  was  concluded. 

"Courtney,"  said  Simon,  after  a  silence,  "says  it 
ain't  logic — but  love.  An'  sometimes  I — " 

"Love !"  Mark  seemed  to  be  thinking  aloud  rather 
than  answering  the  old  man.  "That's  simple  enough 
to  be  true.  Yes,  love  would  do  that — if  one  could 
only  be  conscious  of  it.  But  love  is  its  own  law. 
It  comes  and  it  goes  and  we,  needing  it,  are  at  its 
mercy." 

"Ye'll  be  late,"  Simon  suggested. 

Doctor  Hedges,  driving  along  the  valley  road, 
drew  up  at  the  station  until  the  eleven  o'clock  train, 
having  discharged  its  Bethel  passengers,  sped  on- 
ward. The  passengers  were  two,  a  man  and  a 
woman,  strangers  to  the  doctor  and  therefore  alien 
to  Bethel.  The  woman  stood  on  the  otherwise  de- 
serted platform,  looking  uncertainly  around  her. 
The  man  made  directly  for  the  doctor. 

"Do  you,"  he  demanded,  "know  where  Mark  Tru- 
itt  lives?" 


388    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK   TRUITT 

"Why,  yes."  The  doctor  bestowed  a  friendly 
smile  on  the  stranger.  "I  guess  I  do." 

"Can  you  show  me  how  to  find  it?" 

"Yes."  Hedges  glanced  toward  the  woman;  she 
was  entering  the  station.  "I  can  do  better.  I  can 
take  you  there." 

"If  you  will."  And  the  stranger  promptly  en- 
tered the  buggy. 

The  doctor  clucked  to  his  horse  and  turned  hos- 
pitably, with  conversational  intent,  to  his  guest.  But 
the  latter  forestalled  him. 

"Live  here?" 

"Between  whiles." 

"Ha !"  The  stranger  smiled,  a  brief  wintry  smile. 
"Doctor,  I  see.  Do  you  know  Truitt?" 

"Well,"  Hedges  spat  ruminatively,  "that's  a  pret- 
ty risky  think  to  say  of  any  man,  but  I  guess — " 

"What  do  they  think  of  him  here?" 

"They  think  he's  a  great  man — and  it's  his 
own — " 

"He's  a  great  mechanic,"  said  the  guest  shortly. 

"I,"  drawled  the  doctor,  "know  more  about  men 
than  mechanics,  but — " 

"What  do  you  think  of  him?"  the  guest  inter- 
rupted again. 

The  doctor,  hoping  to  complete  at  least  one  sen- 
tence, quickened  his  drawl.  "He's  a  man  who's 
either  losing  himself  or  finding  himself,  I'm  not 
sure — " 

"Meaning?" 


THE   PENITENT  389 

"You  wouldn't,"  chuckled  the  doctor,  "have  time 
for  the  explanation."  He  drew  up  before  the  little 
cottage.  "He  lives  here." 

"Hardly !"  the  visitor  retorted.  "I  take  the  three 
o'clock  train.  Much  obliged."  He  sprang,  more 
briskly  than  his  rotundity  promised,  out  of  the 
buggy. 

The  doctor  drove  away,  still  chuckling.  The 
chuckle  would  not  have  died  even  had  he  known  his 
passenger  to  be  none  other  than  that  Henley  whose 
star,  flashing  with  comet-like  swiftness  and  bril- 
liancy above  the  horizon  of  speculation,  had  in  two 
years  achieved  full  planetary  dignity  and  impor- 
tance. But  the  doctor  was  not  a  student  of  Wall 
Street  astronomy. 

"Humph !"  The  luminary  surveyed  the  weather- 
beaten  little  cottage  with  its  unkempt  yard  and  near- 
by smithy.  "So  he  lives  here.  Affectation,  of 
course !" 

He  strode  up  the  path  and  saluted  the  old  man  on 
the  stoop. 

"Mr.  Truitt  lives  here,  I  believe?" 

"I'm  Simon  Truitt.  But  I  reckon  ye  want  Mark, 
Mr.  Henley." 

"Ha !    You  know  me.    His  father,  I  suppose  ?" 

"Yes.  I  saw  ye  once,  years  ago,  when  he  was  in 
the  hospital." 

"I  remember,"  said  Henley,  who  had  forgotten 
that  incident  completely.  "Is  Truitt  about  ?" 

"He's  at  church." 


390    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

"Church!    Surely  not  a  habit?" 

"He  goes  gener'ly,  since  he  come  back." 

"Hmm!  Something  new  for  Truitt."  Henley 
frowned.  "And  my  time's  short.  I  suppose  I  may 
as  well  save  some  of  it  by  going  over  the  plant  now. 
There's  no  objection,  I  suppose?" 

"No ;  I,"  Simon  ventured  uncertainly,  "I  was  jest 
about  to  go  over  myself." 

"I'll  be  glad  of  your  company,"  Henley  graciously 
replied.  "Shall  we  start  ?" 

An  hour  later  Henley  emerged  from  the  shad- 
owy finishing  mill,  blinking  hard  in  the  midday's 
sunshine  and  trying  to  revise  his  estimate  of  the  sit- 
uation. 

For  despite  the  spying  experts'  reports  Henley 
had  come  as  a  skeptic,  remembering  a  man  whose 
genius  had  withered.  He  had  come  also  as  a  foe, 
intending — by  virtue  of  the  authority  vested  in 
luminaries  of  the  second  magnitude — to  forbid  the 
projected  Utopia  of  which  vague  tales  had  reached 
his  ears.  He  had  believed  he  could  do  that — with  a 
word  turn  Truitt  aside  from  his  mad  course,  restore 
sanity  to  a  mind  whose  erratic  tendency  he  had  more 
than  once  corrected.  Had  not  Truitt  always  been 
as  putty  in  his  hands?  Life  in  a  constellation  had 
taken  nothing  from  Henley's  arrogance.  His  sense 
of  humor  may  have  suffered. 

But  now,  with  misgiving  and  a  reluctant  admira- 
tion, he  said,  even  as  his  experts  had  said,  "This  is 
the  work  of  a  very  lucid  mind,'* 


THE    PENITENT  391 

He  followed  Simon  out  on  a  tiny  cape  that  jutted 
into  the  river,  whence  they  could  see  other  evidences 
of  Truitt's  lucidity — the  hospital,  the  bank,  the 
store,  the  cluster  of  homes  gleaming  white  on  the 
hillside.  And  Henley  saw — not  as  the  experts  had 
seen,  happy  if  they  perceived  all  that  had  been  re- 
duced to  fact — but  with  the  eyes  of  one  whose 
greatness  was  to  see  what  might  be,  what  could  be. 
And  as  he  looked  part,  at  least,  of  Truitt's  dream 
was  unfolded  before  him.  The  valley  a  teeming 
throbbing  citadel  of  industry.  The  city  clambering 
over  the  slopes,  capturing  the  heights,  reclaiming 
other  slopes  from  the  forest,  until  in  length  and 
breadth,  in  numbers  and  importance,  it  rivaled  that 
Other  fastness  where  he,  the  master,  had  been  known 
only  as  a  lieutenant.  The  creator  in  him,  not  yet 
killed,  but  only  obscured  by  the  madness  of  exploita- 
tion, thrilled  at  the  sight. 

"He  sees  big,"  he  muttered.  "He  sees  big.  I 
didn't  think  it  was  in  him." 

He  stood  on  the  point,  scanning  thoughtfully  the 
noble  valley,  forgetting  his  silent  companion.  "He's 
picked  out  a  great  site.  ..."  And  then  to  Hen- 
ley came  a  vision  of  his  own. 

That  city  and  citadel  his,  creature  of  his  genius 
and  might,  doing  his  bidding,  yielding  him  homage 
and  tribute,  carrying  forth  his  fame  to  the  paling  of 
lesser  men's  reputations,  capital  of  an  empire — his 
empire. 

"By  God!"  he  breathed  aloud.    "By  God!    .    .    . 


392     THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK   TRUITT 

And  it's  possible — how  did  the  builders  of  cities 
overlook  this  place  ?  ...  It  would  be  better  than 
doing  faker's  tricks  with  stocks  and  bonds." 

He  became  conscious  of  Simon's  curious  gaze 
and  turned  sharply  on  him. 

"Old  man,  you  seem  to  know  a  surprising  lot 
about  making  steel.  Look  down  the  valley — there,  on 
those  hills.  Do  you  see  anything  that  isn't  there?" 

Simon  looked  and  nodded.  "I've  be'n  seem'  it 
more'n  forty  years." 

Henley  stared.  "Humph!  An  epidemic.  There's 
magic  in  these  hills."  His  thoughtful  glance  swept 
them  once  more.  "But  damned  alluring  magic." 

The  gentle,  sometimes  plaintive  voice  of  the 
preacher  had  no  power  to  distract  from  thought.  His 
wistful  message  could  not  reach  the  man  for  whom 
it  had  been  prepared  in  the  hope  that  it  would  come 
to  him  with  healing  in  its  wings. 
'  "Love  would  do  that.  .  .  ."  His  own  chance 
words  kept  running  through  Mark's  mind,  bidding 
him  follow  them  along  a  new  path.  He  followed, 
wondering  that  he  had  never  trod  that  way  before. 

Was  that,  then,  the  evidence  of  love?  Was  there 
another  manifestation  of  the  miracle  than  that  he 
had  asked  and  awaited?  For  he  had  sought  love, 
thinking  to  find  it  expressed  as  he  had  known  it  be- 
fore, in  the  -old  romantic  visioning,  the  rhapsodic 
sentimentalities,  the  lust  to  possess.  Mark  Truitt 
was  not  the  first  to  make  that  mistake.  The  coast 
of  life  is  littered  with  the  wrecks  of  those  who 


THE    PENITENT  393 

have  taken  the  flickering  glow  of  youth's  blind  im- 
pulse to  wed  or  the  red  flame  of  manhood's  passion 
for  the  true  light.  But  that  morning  a  new  percep- 
tion dawned. 

The  poets  and  preachers  were  right.  There  was 
— there  must  be — a  love  that  passed  beyond  the 
realm  of  the  senses,  that  knitted  souls  as  well  as 
bodies,  declared  itself  not  in  greedy  cruel  desire  but 
in  the  knowledge  of  a  perfect  indestructible  unity 
and  the  gentle  will  to  serve,  when  it  most  gave  re- 
ceived most.  Such  a  love  would  not  stand  aghast 
at  sin,  would  suffer  in  its  mate's  suffering,  yearn  to 
bear  that  other's  burdens.  That  love  he  had  never 
seen,  never  met  in  his  passionate  pilgrimage.  But 
that  the  heart  was  capable  of  it  he  knew  from  his 
own  need ;  only  in  such  guise  could  the  miracle  come. 

The  preacher  was  closing.  Like  an  echo  came  his 
last  words  to  Mark. 

".  .  .  Faith,  purpose,  love,  the  trio  of  forces 
without  which  no  life  is  complete.  And  of  these  the 
greatest  is  love.  For  love  suffereth  long  .  .  . 
seeketh  not  her  own  .  .  .  thinketh  no  evil  .  .  . 
endureth  all  things  .  .  .  never  faileth.  Oh,  my 
friends,  open  your  hearts !" 

The  benediction  had  been  said.  Mark  went  quietly 
from  his  rear  pew  out  of  the  church  and  limped 
slowly  along  the  dusty  weed-flanked  pike  until  he 
came  to  a  minor  crest.  There  he  dropped  on  the 
roadside  and  turned  his  eyes  to  the  valley. 

The  murmurous  quiet  of  noonday  was  about  him. 
A  few  snowy  billowing  clouds  floated  majestically 


394    THE    AMBITION    OF   MARK   TRUITT 

in  a  sky  of  deepest  blue;  their  shadows  careered 
lazily  over  hillside  and  bottom-land,  touching  brown 
stubble-field  and  sunlit  foliage  with  a  royal  purplish 
hue.  A  warm  breeze  stirred  fitfully;  ragweed  and 
goldenrod  danced  lightly  at  its  summons.  From 
the  rufHed  river  glanced  a  myriad  points  of  golden 
light.  The  faint  elusive  fragrance  of  sweet  clover 
came  to  him. 

But  he,  as  had  been  the  blithe  youth  of  that  other 
Sabbath,  was  insensible  to  such  beauties.  Then,  the 
valley  and  its  encircling  hills  had  been  to  him  the 
background  for  a  slender  girlish  figure  that  tripped 
daintily  before  him  to  the  accompaniment  of  other- 
world  music,  a  fair  and  a  false  promise  of  the  issue 
of  his  great  adventure.  Now,  they  framed  the  pay- 
ing Magdalen,  summing  up  the  adventure's  failure 
and  his  unworthiness.  Thoughts  of  her  persisted 
strangely  this  day ;  she  seemed  vividly  real  and  near. 

Poor,  desirous,  yet  aspiring  Kazia,  sinning  once 
as  the  price  of  an  escape,  sinning  again  because  he 
would  not  let  her  have  her  love  clean.  He  winced  at 
the  thought  of  that  first  evil  from  which  he  might 
have  saved  her.  But  it  was  not  in  recoil,  rather  in 
exquisite  sorrow  for  her  suffering,  wishing  he  could 
lift  the  burden  of  her  shame  to  his  own  shoulders. 
.  .  .  But  that,  he  had  said,  was  the  mark  of  love. 
So  close  had  the  miracle  come. 

Instinct  answered  that.  "No!  If  it  were  love  I 
should  know  without  persuasions.  Open  your  hearts! 
My  gentle  dreamer,  it  isn't  so  simple.  Who  would 
refuse  any  one  of  your  trio  of  forces,  if  it  were  to  be 


THE    PENITENT  395 

had?  But  they  are  not  to  be  had  for  the  wanting 
• — or  for  the  asking." 

Up  the  rise,  village  bound,  creaked  a  battered  old 
top-buggy,  bearing  a  passenger  whose  grizzled  beard 
and  lined  face,  too,  showed  the  marks  of  time's 
battering.  Mark  gathered  himself  together;  heart- 
sick often,  sometimes  even  morbid,  though  he  might 
be,  he  had  no  wish  to  inflict  his  woes  on  others. 

The  buggy  drew  up  beside  him. 

"Howdy,  Mark." 

"Howdy,  Doc." 

"Did  he  find  you?" 

"Who?" 

The  doctor  chuckled.  "Guess  he  didn't,  or  you 
wouldn't  have  to  ask.  He's  a  vigorous  party  that 
doesn't  understand  the  joy  of  talk.  I  took  him  from 
Number  Four  to  your  place." 

"Short  and  stout—" 

"And  not  much  for  looks,"  Hedges  concluded 
the  portrait.  "That's  him.  Has  a  way  with  him, 
though.  And  the  habit  of  taking  what  he  wants,  I 
guess,  without  waiting.  He,"  the  doctor  grinned, 
"admits  you're  a  great  mechanic.  Feel  your  hat 
tightening  any?" 

"Not  perceptibly,"  Mark  smiled  faintly.  "You 
should  be  more  respectful.  He's  a  famous  magician. 
He  knows  how  to  turn  water  into  gold." 

"Sho!  I  wish,"  Hedges  sighed  humorously,  "I 
knew  the  trick." 

His  eyes  sought,  not  humorously,  Hedges  Hill. 
On  its  level  windswept  top  could  be  seen  a  heap  of 


396     THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK   TRUITT 

charred  ruins,  relic  of  the  doctor's  big  idea.  Ten 
years  before  he  had  built  his  sanatorium,  investing 
therein  the  savings  of  a  lifetime.  He  had  seen  it 
burned  to  the  ground  ere  it  was  a  year  old.  Through 
some  technicality  the  insurance  company  had 
avoided  payment.  Therefore  "Doc"  Hedges  was 
held  lightly  in  the  esteem  of  his  neighbors ;  in  Bethel 
as  in  less  obscure  corners  of  the  earth  not  low  aim 
but  failure  was  crime. 

"Do  you  ever  think  of  trying  it  again?" 

But  the  doctor  did  not  hear.  His  face  was  still 
turned  wistfully  toward  his  hill.  Mark  repeated  the 
question. 

"Eh?  Why,  yes,  I  aim  to — if  I  live  long  enough 
to  save  enough.  And  I  reckon,  if  I  do,  old  Methu- 
selah'll  have  to  let  that  record  go.  But  if  I  don't, 
some  one  else  will.  This  air's  too  good  to  waste." 

"You  have  faith!" 

"Why,  yes,"  Hedges  answered  simply.  "And 
something  to  work  for.  Without  them  life'd  be  just 
a  valley  of  dry  bones,  I  guess." 

Mark  nodded.    "Just  a  valley  of  dry  bones." 

The  doctor  glanced  at  him  keenly.  "You  have 
something  to  work  for,"  he  said  kindly.  "And  if 
you  haven't  faith,  it'll  come.  It'd  be  only  fair. 
Down  there,"  he  nodded  toward  the  valley,  "there's 
a  good  many  have  faith  in  you." 

"And  if  I  fail,  they'll  be  worse  off  than  ever. 
They'll  have  lost  a  hope.  That's  the  worst  of  it." 

"Better  quit  thinking  of  that."  With  laudable  in- 
tent the  doctor  tried  to  change  the  conversation. 


THE    PENITENT  397 

"Sunday  traffic,"  he  drawled,  "is  getting  pretty 
heavy.  Number  Four  brought  a  woman,  too.  Ex- 
pecting any  baggage  of  that  kind?" 

Mark  shook  his  head  absently 

"No?  That's  too  bad.  She's  a  new  kind  for 
Bethel — a  right  pleasant  kind,  too,  though  I'm  not 
sure  how  our  women'd  take  her."  The  doctor 
grinned,  but  his  pleasantry  won  no  answering  smile 
from  Mark.  "Well,  I  must  be  moseying  along. 
Better  ride  into  town.  That  vigorous  party'll  be 
near  to  apoplexy  by  now,  waiting  for  you." 

Mark  got  in  and  the  buggy  resumed  its  creaking 
journey.  The  doctor  rambled  on. 

"A  good  many  new  sorts  come  to  Bethel  nowa- 
days. Good  thing  for  us,  too — gives  us  a  peep  into 
the  world.  We've  you  to  thank  for  that.  I  came 
across  a  queer  one  yesterday.  I  was  up  on  the 
Hill — I  go  there  sometimes  even  since  the  fire.  I 
found  him  camped  out  in  the  old  tool-shed — about 
the  only  thing  the  fire  missed.  He's  a  half-starved 
little  rat,  with  a  straggly  brown  beard  and  a  club 
foot.  I  asked  him  how  he  got  there  and  he  didn't 
seem  to  know.  Said  he'd  just  walked  and  walked 
and  walked  till  he  found  the  shed.  I  wanted  to 
bring  him  back  to  town,  but  he  wouldn't  come.  His 
mind's  more  than  half  gone,  I  should  judge.  You'd 
better  send  some  one  out  to  look  after  him." 
"I  will." 

"And  he  says,"  the  doctor  concluded  his  herald- 
ing of  fate,  "his  name  is  Peter  Anderson." 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

CITIES   UNBUILT 

HENLEY  was  pleased  to  be  facetious. 
"The  great  Utopian — in  his  modest  cottage 
— living  in  democratic  simplicity  among  his  village 
neighbors.     Very  pretty!     I  suppose  you  do  the 
chores,  too." 

"Sometimes — what  we  have." 

"Very  pretty!  The  Sunday  papers  would  like 
that.  But  it's  a  little  too  theatrical,  don't  you 
think?" 

"Not  consciously  so.  The  place  was  here,  and  it 
served  my  purpose  very  well.  I  don't  need  much 
room,  you  know.  I'm  not  a  Wall  Street  hero." 

"Humph!"  grunted  Henley,  still  a  skeptic. 

"What,"  Mark  asked,  "did  you  come  here  for?" 

Henley  grunted  again.  "Cordial,  I  must  say !  I 
came  to  restore  your  sanity."  He  rose,  mopping  his 
red  face  with  a  silk  handkerchief.  "Take  me  out  of 
this  sun  and  I'll  begin.  I  hear  you're  pretty  far 
gone." 

Mark  led  him  into  a  cool  office-like  room — pleas- 
ant enough — and  made  him  comfortable  with  a 
cigar  and  a  chair  by  a  window  from  which  a  view  of 
the  valley  was  to  be  had. 

398 


CITIES    UNBUILT  399 

"Not  sybaritic,"  Henley  grudgingly  admitted, 
"but  good  enough  for  a  man — who  has  no  women. 
Now  tell  me  what  you're  trying  to  do  here." 

And  Mark  began,  simply,  without  enthusiasm  or 
sentimentalizing,  to  set  forth  his  idea. 

Henley  listened  intently,  studying  the  while,  with 
a  growing  astonishment,  the  grave  quiet-voiced 
man  speaking.  For  he  saw  both  a  marvel  and  a 
mystery.  Here  was  a  man  of  powerful  talents  for 
which  a  rich  hungry  market  was  waiting,  of  proven 
mettle  for  battling,  who  had  tasted  the  sweets  of 
conquest  and  won  a  footing  from  which  he  could  go 
indefinitely  farther  and  higher,  giving  himself  to  an 
idea — nay,  an  ideal — most  remarkable  of  all,  to  an 
undeniably  and  thoroughly  altruistic  ideal.  And 
giving  himself  sincerely.  Such  hasty  explanations 
as  mental  lapse  and  theatricalism  were  put  aside. 
The  man  was  evidently  honest,  moved  by  a  deep  con- 
viction and  genuine  purpose.  Henley  could  not  un- 
derstand, but  he  could  at  once  recognize  that. 

And  Henley  could  respect  that  for  what  it  en- 
tailed. He  judged  men  by  instinct  and  instinct 
served  him  truly  now,  revealing  to  him  what  the 
speaker  himself  had  not  yet  fully  felt.  Brilliancy 
and  courage,  audacity  even,  Truitt  had  always  had 
in  generous  measure.  Now  he  had  added  steadiness 
and  bigness,  strength  without  hardening,  and  there- 
fore the  power  to  achieve  greatly  as  never  before. 
Everything  Henley  had  known  of  Truitt  he  had 
liked ;  what  he  saw  now  he  liked  more  than  ever. 

What  fires  and  pressures,  he  wondered,  had  thus 


400    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

forged  the  steel  in  Mark  Truitt?  But  what  an  ally 
he  could  be! — and  what  an  antagonist! 

And  it  is  worth  remembering,  in  view  of  the  ridi- 
cule later  hurled  at  Truitt's  Utopia  and  inspired  by 
Henley  himself,  that  on  that  Sabbath,  listening  to 
Mark's  exposition,  Henley  saw  the  idea  as  entirely 
feasible,  logical  and  practical  in  plan  and,  one  factor 
left  out,  assured  of  success.  But  then  Henley  knew, 
as  the  public  did  not  know,  of  the  profits  of  industry 
and  the  methods  and  concealment  of  distribution. 

The  one  factor  which  could  not  be  left  out  was 
that  Truitt's  plan  was  an  indictment  of  the  ideals 
of  Henley  and  his  fellow  luminaries  of  magnitude 
and  an  attack  upon  the  divine  right  of  exploiters. 

The  explanation  came  to  an  end.  Mark  awaited 
his  auditor's  comment. 

"Of  course,  you  know,"  Henley  said,  with  an 
easiness  that  was  outward  only,  "you  won't  put  it 
through." 

"I  do  not  know  that,"  Mark  answered  quietly. 
"This  valley  is  well  situated  with  respect  to  the  mar- 
ket. Its  transportation  facilities  are  good.  Our 
fuel  is  here,  and  I  can  get  ore  here  cheaper  than 
Quinby  or  MacGregor.  I  can  make  steel  cheaper 
than  anybody  in  America,  and  there's  no  plant  of  its 
size  that  can  equal  mine  in  capacity.  In  ten  years, 
with  a  fair  field — " 

"With  a  fair  field.    Exactly!" 

"You  mean  I  won't  have  it?" 

"You  won't  have  it." 

"Why?" 


CITIES    UNBUILT  401 

"For  one  thing — profits." 

"I'll  make  money  here." 

"It  isn't  a  question  of  your  profits  nor  of  profits 
alone,  but  of  size  of  profits.  No,"  Henley  shook  his 
head  vigorously,  "you  can't  have  it.  I'm  here  to  tell 
you  that." 

"Well?" 

"I  have  no  objection  to  your  safety  appliances. 
They're  practical.  They'll  save  twice  their  cost  in 
damages  every  year." 

"That's  obvious." 

"I'll  agree  to  the  baths.  If  the  men  want  to  clean 
up  after  work — why,  I  regard  bathing  as  a  very 
proper  habit." 

Mark  smiled.    "The  men  will  be  grateful." 

"I'm  not  joking,"  Henley  reminded  him  sternly. 
"I'll  go  as  far  as  to  agree  to  the  eight-hour  shift — 
as  an  experiment.  I'd  like  to  see  it  tried  out." 

"Yes?" 

"Your  company  stores,  company  gardens  and 
company  homes  are  well  enough.  They  can  be  made 
profitable — properly  handled.  But  your  profit-shar- 
ing plan  is  all  wrong  and" — Henley  leaned  forward 
and  rapped  on  the  arm  of  his  chair  to  emphasize 
each  word — "and  you  can't  have  it.  I  wouldn't 
care  if  you  gave  them  only  a  nominal  share.  It 
would  be  useful — at  first — to  get  good  men  up  here. 
Afterward  you  could  cut  it  out.  But  why,  in  God's 
name,  give  them  half?" 

"Because  I'll  need  the  other  half  for  some  things 
I'm  planning." 


402     THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK   TRUITT 

"I'm  not  joking,"  Henley  repeated.  "Why  give 
them  half?" 

"Oh,  that's  an  approximation.  It  seems  to  me  a 
pretty  fair  division  of  the  spoils.  I  don't  insist  on 
its  accuracy.  However,  that's  not  the  point."  Mark 
straightened  up  in  his  seat  by  the  desk,  facing  Hen- 
ley squarely.  "Have  you  forgotten  that  my  money 
and  mine  only  is  invested  in  this  plant  ?  I  can  quote 
good  authority,  yourself,  that  a  man  ought  to  be  al- 
lowed to  run  his  own  business  to  suit  himself." 

"As  long  as  he  hurts  no  one  else." 

Mark  smiled  again  at  that.  "You  said  you  weren't 
joking.  I  suppose  you  aren't.  That's  the  joke  of 
it.  However,  the  point  is,  you  forbid  me  to  conduct 
my  own  business  in  my  own  way.  And  your  au- 
thority?" 

"The  power,"  answered  Henley  quietly,  "to 
smash  you — and  the  will.  We've  got  labor  where 
we  want  it  in  this  business  and  we  propose  to  keep  it 
there.  What  you  propose  would  be  a  dangerous 
precedent.  If  we  let  you  succeed,  we'd  have  the 
men  all  over  the  country  yammering  for  the  same 
freak  conditions.  Therefore,  we  won't  let  you  suc- 
ceed." 

"I  see.    And  you  ?" 

"I?  I  made  you — have  you  forgotten  that? — 
and  I'm  responsible  for  you.  I  helped  to  put  labor 
where  it  is,  at  some  risk  to  myself,  and  I  don't  pro- 
pose to  have  a  man  of  my  own  making  undo  the  big- 
gest thing  I've  ever  done.  Therefore,  /  won't  let 
you  succeed." 


CITIES    UNBUILT  403 

"You're  quite  sure  you  can  do  it — smash  me?" 

"Truitt,  every  steel  company  in  the  country  will 
make  it  its  business  to  put  you  out.  I  know  almost 
to  a  dollar  what  you  have  and  what  this  plant  cost 
you.  I  give  you  five  years  to  hold  out,  at  most  six. 
After  that  we  will  collect  the  remains  and  bury 
them."  Henley  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  smiling 
genially.  "It's  a  pretty  little  plant.  I'll  be  glad  to 
buy  it  cheap,  under  the  hammer." 

"And  you  won't  stand  aside  and  let  me  fight  it 
out  with  the  rest  of  them  ?" 

"No."  Henley  seemed  astonished  at  the  question. 
"Certainly  not.  What  did  you  expect?" 

"I  had  hoped,"  Mark  answered  slowly,  "that 
you'd  stay  out  of  it.  I  realize  I  had  no  reason  to 
hope  that." 

Henley  stirred  restlessly,  turned  to  look  out  upon 
the  valley,  upon  the  city  that  had  not  yet  risen. 
An  uneasy  qualm  moved  in  his  heart,  continued  with 
a  sharpness  that  was  almost  akin  to  pain.  He  found 
himself  resisting  an  absurd,  an  incredible  impulse — 
a  tenderness  such  as  he  had  used  to  know,  stealthily 
and  unadmittedly,  for  a  young  half  invalid  with  the 
habit  of  triumphing  where  robust  men  fell,  multi- 
plied now  for  this  man. 

"Truitt,  I — "  Henley  stopped,  an  embarrassment 
as  unwonted  as  the  impulse  upon  him,  and  turned 
again  to  the  window. 

"Truitt,"  he  began  again,  very  gruffly,  eyes  still 
fixed  on  the  city  the  magic  of  the  hills  revealed  to 
him,  "I — well,  I  like  you.  I've  always  counted  you 


404    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

my  friend.  I  don't  want  to  have  to  fight  you. 
I  don't  think  you  want  to  fight  me.  There  is — there 
may  be  another  alternative."  He  turned  to  face 
Mark.  "Take  me  in  with  you." 

Mark  looked  his  astonishment. 

"I  say,"  Henley  went  on,  "I  might  do  it.  I've 
seen  something  this  morning — something  you've 
been  seeing.  The  city  out  there.  It's  big — big! 
And  if  the  figures  you've  given  me  are  correct,  it's 
possible.  This  place  was  intended  for  a  city.  And 
with  us  working  together,  it  could  be  ten  times  big- 
ger— epic — stupendous !" 

He  got  to  his  feet,  and  shooting  up  the  shade, 
stood  looking  thoughtfully  out  of  the  window.  The 
afternoon  sunshine  fell  full  upon  him.  And  despite 
rotundity  the  squat  heavy  figure  and  ugly  face  had 
lost  none  of  their  dynamic  suggestion.  Mark,  watch- 
ing questioningly,  saw  the  jaw  and  mouth  suddenly 
tighten  and  the  black  eyes  begin  to  crackle.  He 
stiffened  himself  involuntarily,  expecting  to  feel 
once  more  the  old  magnetic  current  leaping  out  from 
the  man  to  him. 

"We'd  make  it,"  Henley  seemed  almost  to  be 
thinking  aloud,  "a  city  from  the  beginning.  We'd 
get  the  government  to  make  the  river  navigable  to 
the  mouth  and  ship  our  coal  by  boat  to  the  gulf. 
I  can  think  of  a  dozen  concerns  I  could  get  to  move 
their  plants  here  and  contractors  who'd  undertake  to 
house  the  people.  In  five  years  we'd  have  fifty  thou- 
sand here,  and  coming  as  fast  as  we  could  put  roofs 
over  them.  But  we'd  build  on  steel.  We'd  quadru- 


CITIES    UNBUILT  405 

pie  your  plant  at  once — for  a  start.  We'd  make  this 
the  steel  center  and  this  overgrown  trust  with  its 
graft  and  favoritism  and  slipshod  methods  would 
have  us  to  reckon  with.  We'd  leave  Ouinby  and 
that  Scotch  bagpipe,  grown  fat  on  other  men's 
brains,  in  the  shade.  By  God !"  Henley's  voice  was 
ringing,  as  he  wheeled  on  Mark  again.  "It  would  be 
the  big  thing  of  the  century — making  a  city  to  order. 
And  I  guess  for  that  you'd  be  willing  to  give  up 
your  little  two-by-four  paternalism." 

"That  would  be  stipulated  ?" 

"Certainly!  We'll — "  Henley  seemed  uncon- 
scious of  the  change  of  mood  and  tense.  "We'll 
leave  fads  to  the  cranks.  We'll  build  this  city  on  a 
rock — on  a  sound  financial  foundation — and  use 
the  profits  for  extensions." 

"I  think  you  don't  understand  what  I — " 

"Understand?  Of  course  I  understand.  That's 
why  the  idea  grips.  You're  a  born  battler;  things 
were  coming  too  easy  for  you.  You  need  obstacles, 
to  have  to  extend  yourself.  I  need  that.  I've  got  a 
hold  in  Wall  Street.  I  can  tighten  my  hold.  But  I'm 
out  of  place  there.  I'm  a  builder,  not  a  money-grub- 
ber. I've  got  to  see  things  growing  under  my  hand. 
What  I'm  at  now  is  just  a  game.  This  would  be  a 
work,  the  kind  I  need.  Will  you  consider  it?" 

"Are  you  offering  it?" 

"I'm  offering  it  as  a  possible  alternative  to  putting 
you  out  of  business.  There  may  be  magic  in  these 
hills,  but  if  the  thing  works  out  on  study  as  I  be- 
lieve now  it  will,  I'll  do  it.  What  do  you  say?" 


4o6    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

"And  you  say,"  Mark  insisted,  "it's  the  only  pos- 
sible alternative  to  righting  you?" 

"To  being,"  Henley  corrected  grimly,  "put  out  of 
business." 

It  was  Mark's  turn  to  go  to  the  window.  He  stood 
there  silent,  for  many  minutes,  looking  not  upon 
the  city  that  might  be  but  upon  the  little  village  that 
was.  And  the  sunshine  fell  full  upon  him,  revealing 
his  physical  frailty  without  taking  from  his  sugges- 
tion of  power. 

A  group  of  children  passed  along  the  street  before 
him.  Slender  limbs  and  the  fresh  sunburn  on  pinched 
faces  and  calves  declared  that  they  were  but  lately 
come  to  Bethel.  They  bore  sheaves  of  goldenrod 
and  trudged  sedately,  as  though  still  more  than  a  lit- 
tle in  awe  of  the  beauty  and  Sabbath  calm  of  this 
spacious  new  world  into  which  they  had  been  led. 

"They're  from  the  new  town,"  Mark  explained. 
"They  came  from  the  city  and  they  like  it  here  very 
much.  Their  fathers  and  mothers  like  it  here,  too, 
and  they're  hardly  settled  down  yet.  Only  yester- 
day an  old  man — old  at  fifty — was  telling  me — " 

"Yes?"  Henley  interrupted  him  impatiently. 
"What  do  you  say  ?" 

"It  doesn't  tempt."  Mark  faced  him  steadily. 
"You  were  mistaken.  I  don't  want  battle.  I  don't 
want  obstacles.  But  I  do  want  to  put  that  through." 
He  nodded  toward  the  village  and  the  mills. 

"Humph !  You'll  find  plenty  of  obstacles  and  bat- 
tles over  there." 

"Yes.    But  there  would  be — compensations." 


CITIES    UNBUILT  407 

"I  would  give  you  compensations.  Do  you 
mean,"  Henley  demanded,  "you  choose  to  hobble 
along  with  a  little  one-horse  plant  and  philanthropy 
when  you  might  go  with  me  into  something  really 
big  ?  Compensations !  You'll  end  in  losing  all  you 
have." 

"All  the  money  I  have,"  Mark  corrected.  "That 
is  possible.  But  I'm  not  worrying  about  the  poor- 
farm.  I  expect,  when  that  happens,  I  can  find  a 
good  job  somewhere." 

"Then,"  Henley  fired  his  last  gun,  gruffly,  "then 
you  choose  those  people  over  there  against  me — who 
made  you?" 

"They  helped  to  make  me — to  make  you,  too — 
You/'  Mark  answered  quietly,  "don't  tempt. 

"I'd  like  you  to  understand,"  he  continued  after 
a  little  pause,  "since  you've  mentioned  friendship, 
I  don't  like  to  think  of  you  as  an  enemy.  But  this 
plan,  this  idea,  is  worth  a  good  deal  to  me,  even 
though  the  chance  of  success  is  small.  It  came  to  me 
before  the  strike.  And  at  first  it  was  only  the 
shallow  sentimentality  you  think  it.  Then  it  became 
a  refuge.  I  came  here  because  there  was  a  thing" — 
Henley  saw  the  shadow  that  passed  over  his  face 
— "a  thing  I  wanted  to  forget,  something  I  needed 
to  earn.  But  now  it's  grown  beyond  that.  It  has  a 
value  of  its  own.  It's  my  niche,  the  thing  I  must  do. 
You've  helped  to  make  that  clear. 

"You  ought  to  understand  it,  for  you  had  it.  It's 
what  saved  you  from  being  like  the  other  money- 
grubbers.  You  carne  close  to  being  one  of  them. 


408    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

Why,  once  when  Quinby  cracked  his  whip  you — 
you — cringed  like  a  whipped  dog  before  the  old 
blatherskite  because  you  loved  your  money.  You 
remember  that,  don't  you  ?  And  then  you  ran  afoul 
of  him  again,  over  the  strike,  when  the  same  threat 
hung  over  you,  and  you  didn't  cringe.  You  beat 
him  down.  Why?" 

"I  couldn't  let—" 

"No,  you  couldn't.  You  believed  opposing  him 
would  cost  you  much.  The  strike  you  forced  did 
take  hundreds  of  thousands  from  the  valqe  of  your 
stock.  But  you  didn't  think  of  that  then.  And 
now — you've  claimed  my  friendship.  How  much 
does  it  mean  to  you  ?" 

"A  good  deal,  Truitt,"  Henley  answered  slowly. 
"It's  the  only  friendship  I  ever  wanted.  It  was  my 
reason  for  making  you  what  you  are." 

"Friendship  means  obligation — you've  just  re- 
minded me  of  that.  Wrould  it  add  to  your  obliga- 
tion if  I  told  you  that  you  got  away  whole  from 
Quinby  because  of  me?" 

"What!    What's  this?    You  never  told  me— " 

"It  wasn't  I  who  did  it  but — a  woman."  Henley 
saw  the  shadow  again.  "But  she  did  it  for  me.  I 
took  for  you  an  advantage  I  wouldn't  take  for  my- 
self. Does  that  square  what  you  did  for  me?" 

"Yes.  I  don't  understand.  But  it  does.  It  more 
than  squares  it." 

"Then — my  success  here  can't  hurt  you — will 
you  stand  aside  and  let  me  fight  it  out  with  the 
others?" 


CITIES    UNBUILT  409 

"You're  asking  me  to  let  you  undo  the  best  thing 
I've  ever  done !" 

There  was  a  long  silence  in  the  little  room.  Hen- 
ley sat  stiffly,  staring  at  the  man  who  had  passed  out 
of  reach  of  his  influence.  And  the  pain  was  unmis- 
takable now. 

"I  see,"  he  said  at  last,  as  if  reluctantly.  "I  guess 
I'm  the  only  one  of  the  money-grubbers  who  could 
understand.  It  seems  to  be  your  idea  against  mine. 
I'm  sorry." 

"It  seems  so.    I'm  sorry,  too." 

"My  city — I  guess  it  was  just  the  magic  of  the 
hills,  after  all.  I  don't  want  to  do  it  without  you — 
I'm  sorry." 

There  was  a  heavy  pause.  Then  Henley  drew  a 
long  breath  that  was  almost  a  sigh,  glanced  at  the 
clock  and  rose. 

"I'll  take  another  cigar,"  he  said,  grimly  facetious, 
"if  you  don't  mind  giving  aid  and  comfort  to  the 
enemy.  Then  I'll  go  back  to  my  money-grubbing." 

When  they  were  standing  on  the  station  platform 
he  asked  abruptly,  "Can  you  tell  me  about  that 
woman  business?" 

"I'd  rather  not." 

Henley  scrutinized  him  keenly.  From  around  a 
curve  came  the  crescendo  whistle  of  the  approach- 
ing train. 

"You'd  better,"  he  said  as  he  stooped  for  his  grip, 
"get  her  up  here.  You'll  need  her.  And  when 
you're  down  and  out,  come  to  me  and  I'll  give  you 
a  job." 


410    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

Mark  watched  the  train,  regretfully,  until  it  was 
caught  out  of  his  sight.  Then  he  let  his  gaze  dwell 
lingeringly  on  the  mills  and  village  across  the  river. 
A  wave  of  protectiveness  swept  over  him,  of 
tenderness  as  for  a  deeply  loved  one. 

And  quick  upon  that  wave,  ere  it  ebbed,  surged 
another,  as  though  under  the  shock  of  the  first  con- 
tact with  opposition  a  dam  had  fallen,  loosing  a 
torrent  that  flooded  his  soul,  lifting  him  high,  filling 
his  need.  Consciousness,  distinct,  definite,  thrilling, 
filled  him — of  a  new  power  and  mettle,  of  the  vital- 
ity of  his  purpose,  of  an  ultimate  purpose  into  which 
his  fitted.  A  weight  fell  like  the  pilgrim's  pack  from 
his  shoulders.  His  spirit  stood  erect,  steady.  He 
lifted  his  eyes  to  the  hills. 

"I  can  put  it  through.  I  will  ...  I  have 
faith." 

He  left  the  platform  and  limped  slowly  to  the 
river  and  up-stream  along  its  rocky  shore.  The 
song  of  the  rapids  sounded  in  his  ears,  grew  louder, 
bringing  Kazia  before  him  again.  White  water  had 
been  to  her  the  second  great  wonder  of  the  wilder- 
ness ;  love  had  been  the  first — but  a  wonder  that  had 
failed.  .  .  .  Again  she  was  vividly  real  and  near. 
It  seemed  almost  as  if  he  had  but  to  round  the 
wooded  point  ahead  to  come  upon  her,  standing  on 
the  rapids'  brink  and  gazing  in  childlike  wpnderment 
into  the  plunging  torrent. 

No!  Faith  could  not  wholly  fill  his  need.  There 
was  that  debt  he  owed  and  could  not  pay. 


CHAPTER   XXVIII 

WHITE    WATER 

THE  woman  who  alighted  with  Henley  from 
the  train  had  come  with  an  errand.  Sundry 
inquiries  from  the  station  and  at  the  new  hotel — 
so  hideously  garish  amid  the  gray  tones  of  its  sur- 
roundings— convinced  her  that  she  would  need 
Mark  Truitt's  help.  But  she  had  overheard  her  fel- 
low passenger's  questions  to  the  doctor  and  guessed 
that  Mark  would  be  with  him  for  most  of  that  day. 
Nor  was  she  sorry  to  have  more  time  to  prepare  for 
the  meeting.  Though  she  had  come  expecting  it, 
more  courage  than  she  had  -believed  was  required  for 
that  meeting. 

She  stayed  in  her  little  hotel  room  until  dinner- 
time. After  that  meal,  eaten  in  a  noisy  dining-room 
filled  with  still  homeless  men  who  had  come  to  build 
or  work  in  the  Bethel  experiment,  she  went  out  and 
wandered  about  through  the  old  village,  of  which 
years  before,  hearing  of  it  from  an  unappreciative 
young  adventurer,  she  had  used  to  think  as  a  sort 
of  anteroom  to  heaven.  There  had  even  been  a  pe- 
riod in  that  far-off  innocent  girlhood  when  she  had 
thought  of  it  as  a  beautiful  restful  haven  to  which, 

4" 


412    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK   TRUITT 

some  day  when  he  should  have  tired  of  the  greedy 
city  and  its  grind,  her  lover  might  bring  her. 
Always,  it  seemed,  she  had  needed  and  wanted  a 
haven.  If  only  he  had  brought  her  then,  what  might 
have  been  saved ! 

"What  might  have  been  saved!  But  I  mustn't 
think  of  that." 

From  down  a  narrow  lane  she  caught  a  glimpse 
of  the  river,  smiling  in  the  sunlight.  It  beckoned 
to  her  and  she  obeyed,  turning  her  steps  up-stream. 
A  thick  grove  of  oaks  and  chestnuts  shut  her  off 
from  the  village  and  she  was  alone  with  the  river 
and  forest.  River  and  forest  held  many  memories 
for  her. 

A  little  farther  on  the  breeze  sank  down  to  the 
faintest  of  zephyrs  and  to  the  silken  rustle  of  dry- 
ing leaves  and  the  splashing  of  wavelets  against  the 
shore  was  added  another  voice,  low,  murmurous, 
steady,  at  that  distance  a  strange  commingling  of 
menace  and  soothing.  She  listened,  lips  parted,  and 
with  quickened  steps  pressed  on  along  the  bank. 

The  murmur  grew  stronger,  a  loud  booming  the 
rising  wind  could  not  drown.  Little  eddies  showed 
in  the  river.  Flecks  of  foam  appeared,  riding  a 
narrow  lance-like  current  that  shot  down  the  mid- 
dle of  the  ruffled  stream.  She  came  to  a  wooded 
point  where  the  river  swung  abruptly.  Before  her 
were  the  rapids,  a  narrow,  fast  falling  channel  down 
which  the  waters  rushed  and  roared,  tossing  rain- 
bow streamers  aloft  as  they  smote  obstructive  rocks. 
She  saw  a  heavy  log,  floating  lazily  in  the  river 


WHITE    WATER  413 

above,  leap  as  it  felt  the  suck  of  falling  waters  and 
come  swiftly  toward  her,  plunging  and  spinning, 
somersaulting  and  dancing  as  rock  and  torrent 
played  with  it.  With  a  crash  she  could  hear  even 
above  the  rapids'  thunder,  it  struck  against  a  huge 
boulder,  stayed  a  moment  in  its  wild  course,  then 
slid  off  down  a  last  seething  white  stretch.  The 
whirlpool  caught  it,  flung  it  almost  to  the  opposite 
shore,  then  swept  it  in  a  wide  arc  toward  her, 
bringing  it  at  last,  battered  and  scarred,  still  spin- 
ning, to  rest  at  her  feet.  She  gave  a  little  cry. 

"But  it  lived  through!" 

There  she  left  off  rambling  for  a  seat  at  the 
water's  edge,  and  taking  off  her  hat,  leaned  back 
against  a  rock  to  watch  the  pictures  painted  by 
slanting  sunshine  on  flying  spray.  It  was  to  be  for 
but  a  few  minutes,  she  said;  experience  and  a  cer- 
tain philosophy,  both  hardly  acquired,  forbade  it 
at  all. 

The  warm  sun  beat  upon  her.  The  rapids  sang  to 
her.  Occasionally  a  gentle  gust  tossed  over  her  a 
cloud  of  spray,  so  fine  that  she  felt  it  only  as  a  cool 
damp  breath.  The  memories  she  was  used  to  fight- 
ing back,  loosed  now  by  the  sight  of  this  untamed 
relic  of  the  wilderness,  rushed  out  upon  her,  cap- 
tured her.  She  relived  a  foolish  idyl,  all  its  ecsta- 
sies, its  shadowless  content.  And  she  thought — of 
what  might  have  been  saved,  and  of  the  man  who 
might  have  saved  her.  It  was  poor  preparation  for 
the  impending  meeting.  Certainly  it  did  not  fortify 
the  hardly  won  philosophy. 


414    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK   TRUITT 

Hours  passed.  A  few  fleecy,  tumbling  clouds 
floated  over  her.  Heavier  and  less  silvery  masses 
appeared  over  the  western  horizon.  The  wind 
freshened.  She  did  not  notice.  .  .  .  And  sud- 
denly she  knew  that  she  was  not  alone. 

She  turned  and  saw  him  standing  near,  staring, 
bewildered  yet  strangely  eager,  toward  her.  Her 
lips  parted,  her  bosom  lifted  in  a  sharp  intake  of 
breath,  as  their  eyes  met.  Then  she  got  slowly  to 
her  feet,  trying  to  look  away  that  she  might  regain 
a  lost  self-control. 

He  started  toward  her,  with  the  peculiar  halting 
step  she  never  could  see  without  a  tender  maternal 
impulse.  Scarcely  two  yards  away  he  stopped. 

"Kazia— you!" 

"Yes." 

"But  I,"  he  stammered,  "I  don't  understand." 

Self-control  was  coming  back.  "I  came  to  get 
Piotr." 

"To  get  Piotr,"  he  repeated  mechanically.  But 
he  did  not  comprehend. 

He  passed  a  hand  over  his  eyes.  The  apparition 
did  not  fade.  Gradually  he  realized — with  a  dazing 
jumble  of  gladness  and  pain  and  reluctance — that  it 
was  indeed  she,  in  the  flesh. 

But  not  as  he  had  just  been  remembering  her — 
the  broken  Magdalen  whose  hour  of  payment  had 
come — as  he  had  always  thought  of  her  during  his 
years  of  penitence.  The  splendor  of  figure,  limned 
now  against  the  rainbow  spume,  was  not  withered ; 
neither  in  line  nor  in  tint,  though  she  had  reached 


WHITE    WATER  415 

the  period  when  most  women  begin  to  fade,  had 
time  left  unkindly  record.  And  instantly,  by  the  re- 
flection from  within  that  gives  faces  their  real 
quality,  he  knew  her  as  a  woman  who  had  suffered 
as  he  had  supposed,  yet — he  felt  an  unaccustomed 
quick  glad  throb — without  wilting  or  breaking  un- 
der it. 

Not  for  them  were  the  commonplace  greetings. 

"I  can  hardly  realize  it,"  he  said  at  last.  "I  was 
just  thinking  of  you.  Often  I  am  thinking  of  you. 
A  hundred  times  I've  been  on  the  point  of  going  to 
see  you,  to  find  out — " 

"To  find  out?" 

"How  badly  I  hurt  you." 

"You  didn't  hurt  me." 

"Then  you  are — happy?" 

"I  am — content."  Self-control  was  complete 
now ;  very  quietly,  very  -bravely  she  spoke  the  lie. 

"Content!" 

"At  least,  I  have  accepted  the  truth." 

"But  that  is  resignation,  not  content.  They  aren't 
the  same  thing.  I  wish  I  could  give  you  content.  I 
would  do  anything  to  give  it  to  you.  You  will  find 
it  hard  to  believe  that." 

"I  have  never  believed  anything  else." 

"But  I  can't  give  it.  If  it  comes  to  you,  it  will 
not  be  through  me." 

A  grave  little  smile,  which  did  not  betray  the  effort 
behind  it,  rested  a  moment  on  her  lips.  "So  you've 
been  thinking  of  me  as  a  tragic  broken-hearted 
woman  ?  And  torturing  yourself  as  the  cause  of  it, 


416     THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK   TRUITT 

of  course.    It  is  like  you.     You  never  do  anything 
by  halves,  do  you?" 

"I  have  completed  nothing." 
She  ignored  that.  "I  said,"  she  answered  quietly, 
"you  didn't  hurt  me,  and  that  is  true.  If  I  sinned, 
I  knew  the  risk  and  that  I'd  have  to  pay.  I  have 
paid.  I  would  undo  it  if  I  could.  But  repentance 
needn't  mean  worthlessness.  There  is  such  a  thing 
as  beginning  over  again." 

"Such  courage !    You  have  done  that  ?" 
"I  have  the  Matka  and  my  work.    I  try  to  think 
only  of  them." 

"Such  courage !"  he  repeated.    "I  wish  I  had  it." 
The  little  smile  reappeared.   "The  lack  hasn't  been 
great,  I  think.    I  hear  fine  things  of  you." 
"That  doesn't  count — as  between  us." 
"As  between  us — nothing  need  count." 
A  puff  of  wind  had  tossed  a  cloud  of  spray  over 
them.     She  turned   from  him,   and  going  to  the 
stream's  edge,  stood  looking  at  the  furious  waters. 
Very  steady,  very  calm  had  been  her  last  words 
and  he  had  looked  in  vain  for  any  change  in  her 
quiet  gaze.     Since  the  first  faltering  moment  her 
poise  had  been  unshaken,  perfect,  too  perfect  un- 
less— 

A  new  thought,  unaccountably  painful  in  a  heart 
that  had  been  praying  for  her  release,  stirred.  Per- 
haps the  way  for  her  "beginning  over  again"  had 
been  made  easy!  Perhaps  the  love  that  in  the  end 
had  brought  her  only  shame  and  suffering  had  been 


WHITE    WATER  417 

mercifully  killed!  But  that  was  not  as  he  had 
asked  her  release.  He  watched  the  figure  so  prodi- 
gally endowed,  its  curves  beautifully  outlined  against 
the  blur  of  spray.  This  woman  could  still  draw 
men  to  her.  Perhaps  some  one  had  helped  to  make 
her  way  easy — some  one  big  enough  and  true  enough 
to  seek  her  for  what  she  was,  ignoring  what  she  had 
been.  He  stifled  a  sharp  pang;  what  right  had  he 
to  resent  if  she  found  and  chose  such  a  release? 

Suddenly  he  reached  out,  caught  her  arm  and 
drew  her  back  from  the  brink.  "Don't!"  he 
breathed  sharply.  "You're  getting  top  close.  It 
would  be  a  bad  place  to  fall." 

"Was  I  in  danger?  I  didn't  realize.  It  is  still 
wonderful  to  me — and  terrible.  It  frightens  me — 
and  draws  me.  I — I  had  supposed  that  had  gone 
out  of  me." 

"And  it  hasn't?" 

"It  seems  that  it  hasn't.  I — I  must  get  back  to 
the  hotel — away  from  this." 

The  poise,  unexpectedly,  had  failed.  Unsteadiness 
had  come  into  her  voice,  a  remembered  shadow  into 
her  eyes.  He  was  glad — and  ashamed  of  his  glad- 
ness. 

"Ah!  Why  pretend,"  he  cried,  "what  isn't  true? 
All  this,  the  memories  it  brings — you  must  hate 
them!" 

"I — I  suppose  I  shall — to-morrow." 

"Then  you  must  hate  me,  too." 

"I  told  you  I  haven't  blamed  you." 


4i8    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

"But  that  isn't  true — it  can't  be  true.  It  wouldn't 
be  human  not  to  resent  me,  what  I've  brought  you. 
You  do  resent,  don't  you?" 

"Why  do  you  press  me  with  what  is  ended?  I 
don't  want  to  think  of  it — or  to  be  unjust.  I — " 
She  turned  sharply  to  face  him.  "Yes,  if  you  must 
know  it,  I  do  resent." 

He  winced  at  that.  He  felt  the  blood  leave  his 
face  and  his  heart  contract  with  a  heavy  sickening 
throb.  Her  words — but  an  echo  of  the  indictment 
with  which  he  had  been  scourging  himself — hurt, 
hurt  unmistakably.  He  did  not  want  her  resent- 
ment. But  it  was  just. 

"You  have  every  right  to  resent,"  he  answered 
sadly. 

She  started  swiftly  along  the  bank  toward  the 
village.  He  followed,  trying  to  keep  up  with  her, 
and  with  a  real  effort  managed  it.  A  quarter  of  a 
mile  was  thus  traversed,  neither  speaking,  she  keep- 
ing always  one  pace  ahead  so  that  he  could  not  see 
her  face.  Then  she  observed  his  heavy  breathing 
and  slackened  her  pace. 

"I  didn't  realize  I  was  walking  so  fast."  Her 
vpice  was  quiet  again. 

"I  don't  mind  it."  He  essayed  a  laugh,  a  poor 
mirthless  attempt.  "I  need  a  counter-irritant  just 
now." 

"And  I  didn't  mean  what  I  said  back  there.  I 
haven't  felt  that  way — often,  at  least.  I  have  no 
resentment  against  you — only  against  myself.  It 


WHITE   WATER 

was  in  me  to  keep  clean  and  I  deliberately — it  is 
all  so  clear  now — chose  the  worse  thing." 

"That  is  true  of  all  of  us." 

"I  don't  know.  I  only  know  it's  true  of  me.  And 
so  you  needn't  go  on  torturing  yourself  with 
thoughts  of  your  responsibility.  Oh,  I  don't  want 
you  to  do  that.  It  can  help  neither  of  us  and  it  will 
cripple  your  work  here." 

"It  isn't  facing  the  truth  that  can  hurt,  but  the 
truth  itself.  Kazia,  why  did  you  come  here?" 

"I  told  you— to  get  Piotr." 

"Piotr  ?  I  had  forgotten  him.  I  heard  this  morn- 
ing he  was  here." 

"Then  he  is  here  ?  I  asked  at  the  station  and  hotel, 
but  no  one  had  seen  or  heard  of  him." 

"But  why  is  he  here  ?    And  why  have  you  come  ?" 

"He  came  back  to  us  a  few  weeks  ago,  the  for- 
lornest  waif  I've  ever  seen.  I  don't  know  how  he 
had  been  living — we'd  had  no  trace  of  him  since 
Uncle  Roman  died.  He  was  starving  and  his  mind 
was  clearly  gone.  I  suppose  he  wouldn't  have  come 
to  me  otherwise.  I  ought  to  have  put  him  away 
somewhere,  but  he  was  harmless  and  it  seemed  so 
cruel.  He  just  sat  around  poring  over  books  as  he 
used  to  when  he  was  a  boy.  He  seemed  to  have 
forgotten  all  that's  happened  since  then.  And  then 
three  days  ago  he  awoke.  He  asked  me  for  some 
money — said  something  about  a  debt  he  had  to  pay. 
It  was  little  enough — and  he's  had  so  little  of  every- 
thing, poor  Piotr!" 


420    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

"So  very  little." 

"He  went  put  and  didn't  come  back.  And  yes- 
terday— I'd  seen  she  was  worrying,  but  thought  it 
was  because  he  hadn't  appeared  again — the  Matka 
told  me  she  thought  from  something  he'd  said  that 
he  might  have  come  up  here  to  try  to  harm  you  in 
some  way." 

"He  could  do  me  no  harm." 

"Probably  not.  But  you  hear  of  men  in  his  state 
doing  wild  things.  And  I  was  afraid  he'd  get  into 
trouble.  It  worried  me.  I  think — I  think  the 
Matka  told  him  something  about — us.  I  had  pre- 
sentiments— we've  had  tragedy  enough."  Her  voice 
was  inexpressibly  weary.  "And  so  I  came  to  find 
him  and  take  him  back.  Do  you  know  where  he 
is?" 

"The  doctor  here,  who  told  me  about  him,  said 
he's  camping  out  in  an  old  shed  over  there  in  the 
hills." 

"If  you'll  help  me  to  him,  or  send  some  one — " 

"I  will  go  myself." 

They  had  reached  the  lane  that  led  to  the  main 
street  and  the  hotel.  She  would  have  turned  there, 
but  he  put  out  a  hand  and  stayed  her. 

"Kazia,  was  it  only  on  Piotr's  account  you 
came?" 

Her  glance  wavered,  sought  wistfully  and  sadly 
the  hills  across  the  valley,  came  back  to  his.  "You 
mean,  did  I  think  of  meeting  you  again?  I — why 
should  I  deny  it  ?  I  wanted  to  see  your  work  I  had 
been  hearing  about — and  you  again.  But  it  doesn't 


WHITE   WATER  421 

mean  I  wanted  to  change  anything.  Please  believe 
that.  And  I  didn't  want  to  trouble  you — " 

"You  haven't  troubled  me." 

" — or  remind  you  of  something  you  wish  to  for- 
get" 

"I've  forgotten  nothing.  And  I've  never  wished 
to  forget. — Kazia,  there  isn't  any  one  else?" 

"Any  one  else — I  don't  understand." 

"Another  man." 

"There  couldn't  be  any  one  else — any  one  at  all, 
now.  You  know  that." 

"But  there  could  be !  You're  fine  and  strong  and 
good.  Any  man — " 

"Don't!" 

"Any  man  would  be  proud  to  have  your  love.  It 
hurts  me  to  think  I've  lost  it.  You  think  I've  no 
right  to  say  that,  and  I  haven't.  But  to-day,  seeing 
you — oh,  I  don't  understand  what  is  going  on  in  my 
heart.  But  I  do  know  that  as  long  as  we're  alive 
and  apart  there's  an  issue  between  us,  and  I  can't 
forget  it  or  ignore  it.  It  will  always  weigh  upon  me 
and  cripple  me.  It  will  cripple  you,  too.  Other 
miracles  have  come  to  me — " 

"No  miracle  could  be  enough." 

"The  one  could.     And  I  believe — " 

"Oh,  please  don't,"  she  cried  pleadingly.  "It  is 
true,  what  I  told  you.  There  is  nothing  I  want  to 
change.  I'm  not  fine  and  strong  and  good,  only  a 
coward  who  couldn't  stand  another  hurt." 

"You  mean,"  he  pressed  her  unsteadily,  "you 
couldn't  trust  me,  even  if — " 


422     THE   AMBITION    OF   MARK   TRUITT 

"Yes,  I  mean  that.  .  .  .  But  I  don't  blame  you. 
You've  been  torturing  yourself  with  the  thought 
that  you  owe  it  to  me,  until  you  would  catch  at 
straws.  ...  I  beg  you,  don't  try  to  take  away 
from  me  the — the  place  I  have  won.  But  that  is 
my  fault,  too.  I  shouldn't — oh,  I  shouldn't  have 
come  here,  I  should  have  sent  some  one.  .  .  . 
Don't  you  see  how  you're  hurting  me?  But  you 
can't  know  that,  for  you  don't  care — you  never  did 
and— I  do." 

Words  came  rushing  to  his  lips.  But  she  gave 
him  no  chance  to  say  them.  She  lifted  to  him  the 
face  he  had  been  seeing  during  the  long  months. 

"I  didn't  mean  to  say  that.  It  puts  no  obligation 
on  you.  Will  you  please  leave  me  now  and  bring 
Piotr  to  the  hotel  ?  I  must  leave  with  him  to-night." 

She  left  him.  He  put  out  a  hand  to  stay  her  again 
and  let  it  fall.  Speech  rushed  to  his  lips  once  more 
and  he  stifled  it.  The  sight  of  her  departing  gave 
him  an  exquisite  pang.  A  longing  such  as  he  had 
never  known,  that  was  not  pitiful  nor  yet  of  the 
flesh,  to  run  after  her,  to  clasp  her  and  cry  out  a 
thing  for  which  he  knew  no  words,  almost  con- 
quered him.  But  the  habit  of  doubt,  of  bitter  un- 
faith  in  himself — fixed  through  two  years  of  fanatic 
penitence — the  fear  of  hurting  her  again,  held  him 
motionless,  dumb. 

When  she  had  passed  out  of  his  sight,  he  started 
quickly  villageward.  At  the  cottage  he  harnessed 
his  horse  to  a  buggy,  drove  across  the  bridge  and 
took  the  road  that  led  to  Hedge's  Hill. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

THE   MIRACLE 

"T   SHALL  know  it,"  he  had  thought,  "when  it 
A  comes." 

And  as  he  drove  there  came  to  him  the  knowledge 
of  his  miracle.  It  came,  not  with  the  lazy  luxurious- 
ness  of  youth  drifting,  ignorant  and  caring  not  for 
wisdom,  toward  a  mate,  nor  yet  with  the  ecstatic 
feverish  excitement  of  the  passionate  man,  but  with 
a  deep,  solemn,  all-pervading  joy.  Peace  followed 
it:  the  peace  of  certitude,  for  he  knew  that  in  the 
woman  who  had  sinned  he  had  found  the  one  who 
fitted  into  him  as  a  member  into  its  body,  completed 
him,  with  him  formed  the  perfect  unity — of  con- 
tent, for  he  knew  that  from  its  infinite  preciousness 
neither  trial  nor  failure,  disappointment  nor  mis- 
step could  subtract.  Senses  had  not  to  do  with  this 
new  knowledge.  No  man  has  defined  it  or  told  how 
it  comes,  but  no  man,  receiving  it,  has  doubted. 
And  it  comes  only  to  those  who  have  learned  the 
need  of  it. 

Faith  was  fortified.  Perception  of  an  ultimate 
purpose  was  quickened  and  deepened  in  the  thrill- 
ing consciousness  of  its  chief  agency  at  work  in 
him.  His  purpose  was  strengthened,  for  he  had  yet 

423 


424    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

to  earn  the  miracle  granted  to  him.  To  the  courage 
for  endurance  was  added  the  courage  of  hope.  Of 
infinite  mercy  he  learned  the  meaning,  for  he  could 
think  of  her  sin  without  shrinking  or  condemna- 
tion, with  only  a  deeper  tenderness,  a  new  impulse 
of  love;  and  therefore  he  knew  that  the  past  was  in 
truth  past  and  would  not  lurk,  ever  menacing,  in  the 
hidden  places  of  the  future. 

Shadows  that  were  not  of  the  hills  but  of  clouds 
overcasting  the  sky  sent  twilight  down  into  the  val- 
leys. A  strong  wind  had  risen,  rushed  noisily  along 
the  ravines  through  which  the  road  wound,  gather- 
ing up  the  season's  first  tribute  of  fallen  leaves  and 
sweeping  them,  tumbling  and  dancing  and  curveting 
like  so  many  whispering  sprites  at  play,  before  it. 
But  these  portents  did  not  pierce  his  preoccupation. 
The  voice  of  autumn  gales  marching  through  the 
drying  forest  is  mournful  only  to  those  who  mourn. 

Something  else  halted  him.  "She  must  know," 
he  thought.  "She  must  be  made  to  know — that 
nothing  else  counts — that  we  are  to  begin  over  again 
together." 

He  remembered  his  mission. 

There  was  a  rumble  of  thunder.  He  glanced 
overhead  and  saw  the  blackened  sky,  heard  the  rush- 
ing wind.  A  few  scattered  drops  fell.  He  urged 
the  horse  forward. 

He  cast  about  to  get  his  bearings;  there  was  no 
corner  of  those  hills  that  he  did  not  know.  He  was 
miles  away  from  the  village  and  near  the  foot  of  a 
hill  that  towered  well  above  its  neighbors.  He 


THE    MIRACLE  425 

smiled  as  He  saw  a  trace  of  an  old  road,  almost 
obliterated  by  weeds,  that  led  zigzagging  up  the  emi- 
nence. It  was  Hedges'  Hill  and  near  the  crest,  he 
remembered,  was  the  outhouse  that  sheltered  the 
unhappy  Piotr. 

The  storm  overtook  him  before  he  was  half-way 
up  the  hill.  When  he  reached  the  clearing  on  the 
edge  of  which  stood  the  shed,  he  made  his  horse 
fast  to  a  tree,  and  drenched  to  the  skin  by  the  pelt- 
ing rain,  entered  the  shelter. 

At  first,  in  the  shadows  of  the  windowless  shed, 
he  saw  no  signs  of  Piotr.  He  stood  in  the  doorway, 
watching  the  storm.  He  could  see  it  sweeping  up 
the  river  valley,  whipping  the  forest-clad  hillsides 
below  him  into  a  tossing  sea  of  faded  greens  and 
maroons  and  yellows.  The  rain  hid  the  village  from 
his  sight.  .  .  .  He  wondered  if  the  woman  there, 
too,  was  remembering  a  storm  they  had  watched. 

He  had  been  there  several  minutes  when  a  queer 
choking  sound  came  from  behind  him.  He  turned 
quickly,  and  as  his  eyes  became  used  to  the  dark- 
ness, made  out  the  figure  crouching  half  hidden  be- 
hind a  bench  in  the  far  corner. 

"Hello!  Is  that  you,  Piotr?  What  are  you  do- 
ing over  there?" 

The  noise  came  again. 

"Is  something  wrong  with  you?"  Mark  went 
closer  to  him.  "I'm  Mark  Truitt.  Don't  you  know 
me,  Piotr?" 

"Y-yes,"  quavered  Piotr. 

"What's  the  matter— sick  ?" 


426    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

"I'm  a-afraid,"  came  the  whimpering  reply.  "It's 
the  storm." 

Mark  smiled  pityingly.  So  this  poor  nerve- 
broken  creature,  who  cowered  before  a  little  wind 
and  rain  and  lightning,  was  he  who  had  set  out  to 
harm  him. 

"There,  now,  Piotr,"  he  said  soothingly,  as  to  a 
child,  "it  won't  hurt  you.  It  isn't  much  of  a  storm 
— you've  seen  lots  worse  in  the  city.  And  it  won't 
last  long.  Come,  stand  up  like  a  man.  Things  look 
better,  if  you  meet  them  on  your  feet."  He  caught 
Piotr  gently  by  the  arm  and  drew  him  to  his  feet 
and  toward  the  door. 

"You  let  me  be."  Piotr  jerked  himself  loose, 
flinching  as  the  lightning  flashed  and  a  sharp  crack 
came  from  overhead  and  covering  his  eyes  with  a 
dirty  skinny  hand.  He  shrank  back  into  the  shad- 
ows, but  in  the  flash  Mark  had  seen  the  homely 
twitching  face  with  its  sickly  pallor  and  hollows. 

"He's  in  a  bad  way,"  he  thought.  "There,  now," 
he  repeated  aloud,  gently,  "I'm  not  going  to  hurt 
you,  Piotr." 

Piotr  was  again  in  his  corner,  half  crouching, 
staring  fixedly  at  Mark.  His  eyes  made  tiny  points 
of  light  in  the  deep  shadow. 

"D-did  you  come  here  to  get  me?" 

"Of  course  I  did.  I  heard  you  were  hereabouts 
and  I  wasn't  going  to  let  you  stay  up  here  and  starve 
to  death." 

"Wh-what  are  you  g-going  to  do  with  me  now  ?" 

"For  one  thing,"  Mark  answered  gravely,  "when 


THE   MIRACLE  427 

this  rain  lets  up  I'm  going  to  take  you  back:  to  town 
and  get  you  in  the  habit  of  eating  three  square  meals 
a  day.  I  think  it's  beginning  to  let  up  a  little  now." 

He  went  to  the  door  and  scanned  the  sky.  The 
storm — it  had  been  but  a  brief  squall — was  passing. 
The  village  could  be  seen  now,  a  soft  blurred  pic- 
ture, through  the  lessening  downpour.  The  clouds 
over  the  western  end  of  the  valley  were  beginning 
to  break.  Through  a  narrow  rift  a  long  golden 
shaft  from  the  setting  sun  shot  out  across  the  sky. 
Mark  looked  for  the  bow  of  promise  and  found  it, 
a  small  arc  softly  gleaming  in  the  east.  It  held  a 
moment  and  slowly  faded. 

"It  will  be  over  in  a  few  minutes.  We'll  start 
then.  It'll  be  dusk  soon  and  dark  before  we  get  to 
the  village." 

"Who,"  came  Piotr's  quavering  voice,  "who  told 
you  I  was  here?" 

"The  doctor  who  found  you  yesterday — and 
Kazia." 

"Kazia!    She — she  is  here?" 

"Yes.    She  came  to  get  you." 

"She  knows?" 

"She  guessed — she  and  the  Matka  guessed — you 
were  up  to  some  mischief.  You  frightened  the 
Matka  with  your  wild  talk.  But  we'll  discuss  that 
later.  Come,  we'll  make  a  start  now." 

Piotr  did  not  move  from  his  corner.  "Ah!"  It 
was  almost  a  sob.  "They're  still  for  you  against 
everybody,  against  me.  It  was  always  so.  Every- 
body was  for  you.  You  had  everything.  It  came 


428    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK   TRUITT 

easy  to  you.  It  came  hard  to  me,  so  hard  I  could 
never  do  anything  or  get  anything.  It — " 

"Yes,  yes,  Piotr,  I  know.  But  we're  going  to 
change  that  now.  Come  along — the  rain's  stopped 
and  I  must  hurry." 

"To  get  back  to  her,  I  suppose  ?"  Piotr  sighed. 

"I  must  get  back  to  her.    Come  on." 

"I  don't  think  I — "  Piotr's  words  came  between 
gasps.  Something  seemed  to  be  choking  him.  "In 
a  minute.  I — I  must  get — some  things." 

Mark  looked  quickly  back  over  his  shoulder, 
caught  by  an  odd  change  in  the  plaintive  voice. 
Dusk  was  gathering  rapidly,  deepening  the  shadows 
in  the  shed,  and  he  could  barely  see  the  figure  fum- 
bling about  in  his  corner.  There  was  a  pause — 
Piotr's  search  seemed  to  have  been  successful — then 
a  metallic  click.  Mark  whirled  sharply  on  him. 

"Piotr—!" 

"Ah !"  It  was  not  a  sob  now,  but  a  low  guttural 
growl,  throbbing  with  hate  and  triumph. 

Piotr,  too,  whirled.  From  his  corner  a  point  of 
flame  leaped  out  toward  Mark,  another — another — 
until  six  shots  had  rung  out.  At  the  last  Mark's 
head  drooped  forward,  his  body  swayed  slowly  and 
fell  in  a  crumpled  heap  across  the  doorway.  .  .  . 

After  a  long  void — a  young  half-moon  had  risen 
and  was  floating  in  and  out  of  a  broken  sky — Mark 
began  to  work  back  to  consciousness.  That  was  a 
tedious  painful  journey,  with  many  lapses  into  the 
void,  and  when  accomplished  seemed  hardly  worth 
while,  since  it  sharpened  needlessly  his  perception 


THE   MIRACLE  429 

of  the  hammering  in  his  head  and  the  hot  throbbing 
in  his  left  shoulder.  With  a  decided  effort  he  opened 
his  eyes,  only  to  let  them  close  quickly  to  shut  out 
the  giddiness.  He  tried  to  send  his  mind  out  to  dis- 
cover the  facts  of  his  plight,  but  before  that  errand 
was  done  he  lost  consciousness  again. 

When  next  he  awoke  he  was  being  dragged  by 
his  wounded  shoulder  in  such  fashion  that  his  head 
scraped  along  the  floor.  He  did  not  realize  so  much, 
merely  that  his  pain  had  increased  a  hundredfold. 
He  tried  to  cry  out,  but  could  only  lie  limp  and 
silent.  Then  he  felt  a  hand  passing  over  his  face 
and  a  voice  that  seemed  very  far  away  muttering 
fretfully. 

"I  wonder  if  you're  dying  or  shamming.  It 
would  be  like  you  to  sham.  I  didn't  mean  to  shoot 
then.  I  didn't  want  you  to  die  until  you  knew  the 
mills  were  gone.  But  I  had  to — when  you  looked 
at  me  that  way  I  had  to." 

Mark  heard,  but  the  words  meant  nothing  to  him. 
The  voice  muttered  on ;  detached  sentences  came  to 
him. 

"It  isn't  so  easy  as  I  thought.  ...  I'd  better 
go  now,  while  I  can.  .  .  .  I'm  afraid.  I  never 
drove  a  horse.  .  .  .  Twice,  coming  here,  I  fell. 
I  thought  I  was  dead,  but  it  didn't  go  off — I  don't 
know  why.  ...  I'd  like  to  tell  you  about  Kazia's 
doctor.  I  saw  them  one  night  and  followed  them. 
You  wouldn't  believe  it  of  her,  would  you?  It 
nearly  killed  me.  ...  It  was  your  fault.  You 
ran  away  from  her.  ...  It  would  be  easy  to 


430    THE   AMBITION    OF   MARK   TRUITT 

drive  off  the  road  and  fall  in  the  dark.  .  .  .  I'm 
tired,  and  I  tremble.  Seeing  you  makes  it  worse. 
...  I  keep  wondering  what  they'll  do  to  me.  .  .  . 
When  the  mills  are  gone,  I'm  coming  back  to  you. 
I  guess  you'll  stay.  .  .  .  Maybe  I'd  better  finish 
you  now — you're  so  lucky  always." 

Mark  felt  the  hand  again,  now  at  his  throat, 
pressing  hard.  He  tried  to  protest,  "That  is  quite 
superfluous,"  but  the  pressure  would  not  let  him. 
When  blackness  was  closing  in  on  him  once  more, 
the  grip  relaxed. 

But  he  did  not  quite  lose  consciousness  this  time. 
He  heard  the  other  move  about,  still  muttering,  then 
pass  out.  The  sound  of  wheels  and  the  horse's 
tramping  through  the  tall  weeds  died  away  in  the 
distance. 

At  first  Mark  lay  inert.  A  mortal  weakness  held 
him.  He  could  realize  only  the  pain.  He  wanted 
nothing  but  to  lie  prone  and  motionless.  ...  A 
disturbing  thought  began  to  tug  at  his  brain.  He 
ought  not  to  be  there.  There  was  a  thing  he  must 
do,  some  one  he  must  see.  What  was  it  ? 

"Kazia!"  The  name  gave  him  a  thrilling  shock 
that  sharpened  the  pain  but  cleared  his  mind  a  little. 

And  the  mills !  The  mills!  Kazia  and  the  mitts! 
The  two  thoughts  were  inextricably  mingled. 

With  a  rush  came  realization  of  his  plight.  Piotr, 
the  puny  whimpering  madman  who  cringed  before 
a  squall,  had  shot  him  and  was  on  his  way  to  blow 
up  the  mills.  Piotr  must  be  forestalled.  With  an 


THE   MIRACLE  '431 

effort  he  forced  his  eyes  open  and  held  them  so  until 
the  first  giddiness  passed. 

He  was  lying  across  the  doorway,  head  and 
shoulders  within  the  bar  of  silvery  light  streaming 
through  the  aperture.  By  turning  his  head  a  little 
he  thought  he  could  make  out  lights  twinkling  in 
the  valley,  the  village  whither  Piotr  was  bound.  It 
was  two  miles  away.  He  took  stock  of  his  hurts, 
running  his  fingers  gingerly  over  the  furrow  in  his 
scalp  and  feeling  the  wet  patch  over  his  shoulder. 
It  was  astonishing,  the  effort  required  to  lift  an  arm. 
He  raised  his  head ;  it  fell  back  with  a  thud. 

"I  can't  do  it,"  he  groaned. 

But  the  mills — and  Kazia! 

"I've  got  to  do  it.  I  must  stop  him.  I  must  get 
to  her." 

Then  began  a  fight  to  sit  up,  to  stand,  to  beat  off 
the  invisible  hands  trying  to  drag  him  back  into  the 
blackness.  How  long  the  struggle  lasted,  by  what 
degrees  he  progressed,  he  did  not  know;  but  when 
it  was  over  he  was  leaning  weakly  against  the  door- 
jamb.  His  brain  was  reeling,  he  breathed  sobbingly, 
but  by  bracing  himself  desperately  with  the  cane,  re- 
covered in  the  struggle  to  stand,  he  managed  to  hold 
what  he  had  won. 

His  brain  cleared  again,  a  little  steadiness  came 
to  the  trembling  limbs.  Summoning  all  his  will,  he 
passed  with  uncertain  dragging  steps  out  of  the 
shed.  A  cold  damp  wind  breathed  refreshingly 
upon  him.  He  gripped  his  cane  more  tightly  and 
started  slowly  down  the  weedy  road. 


432     THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK   TRUITT 

He  reached  the  foot  of  the  hill  and  sank  down  in 
a  little  rain  pool,  rested  pantingly  and  laved  his  hot 
face  a  few  minutes,  then  staggered  to  his  feet  and 
limped  on  until  weakness  overcame  him  once  more 
and  he  fell.  .  .  . 

More  than  an  hour  later  he  was  still  lurching 
along  the  road.  In  the  white  moonlight  his  face 
showed  ghastly,  besmeared  with  blood  and  dirt.  He 
went  without  the  cane  now;  in  one  of  his  falls  he 
had  come  down  on  it  and  snapped  it  in  twain.  The 
throbbing  from  his  wounds  had  spread  until  his 
whole  body  was  afire  with  pain.  His  legs  were  in- 
credibly heavy  and  every  few  rods  they  would,  with- 
out warning,  suddenly  crumple  and  let  him  down 
with  an  excruciating  jolt.  Each  time  he  thought  he 
could  rise  no  more. 

But  each  time  a  new  impulse  of  will  came  to  him, 
dragging  him  to  his  feet  and  onward.  It  was  no 
longer  conscious  will.  His  swimming  brain  was 
possessed  by  a  whirligig  of  irrelevant  feverish  fan- 
cies. He  was  back  in  the  mills  in  midsummer;  or 
fighting  off  a  horde  of  malicious  fantastic  imps  that 
clung  heavily  to  him,  tripped  him  and  tried  to  pin 
him  down  when  he  was  prone;  or  facing  grotesque 
madmen  who  hurled  white-hot  javelins  at  him  and 
tortured  him  with  the  remembrance  of  things  he 
wanted  to  forget.  But  through  the  disordered  visions 
trickled  the  one  lucid  persistent  thought  that,  when 
he  fell  and  felt  the  blessed  coolness  of  wet  earth 
against  his  face,  goaded  him  up  and  on :  Kasia  and 


THE   MIRACLE  433 

the  mills!    They  were  in  danger,  they  were  being 
taken  from  him;  he  must  save  them. 

So  he  beat  his  way  slowly  along  moonlit  stretches 
of  rough  road,  through  darkened  ravines  where 
only  instinct  found  a  path,  until  at  last,  rounding  a 
curve,  he  saw  the  furnace  looming  huge  before  him. 

Kazia  did  remember  that  other  storm,  a  rare  hour, 
capping  weeks  of  flawless  happiness,  during  which 
she  had  nerved  herself  to  end  the  halcyon  period 
and  go  forth  to  disillusionment ;  it  seemed  unreal,  a 
part  of  another  life  that  she,  another  woman,  had 
once  lived.  At  the  window  of  her  hotel  room,  while 
she  waited  for  Mark  to  return  with  Piotr,  she 
watched  the  passing  squall;  watched  sadly.  This 
storm  could  presage  no  disillusionment.  All  her 
illusions,  she  thought,  were  dead.  Not  even  the 
troubled,  questioning,  yet  eager  face  of  the  man  to 
hunger  for  whom — deserving  or  undeserving,  it 
mattered  not — was  her  portion,  could  make  one  of 
them  to  live.  She  did  not  want  them  to  live  again. 

But  as  hours  passed  and  he  did  not  return,  a  sense 
of  an  approaching  crisis,  of  a  danger,  came  to  her. 
The  squall  died  away,  full  darkness  fell,  the  train 
she  was  to  have  taken  with  Piotr  rolled  to  a  stop  at 
the  station  and  out  again,  and  still  Mark  had  not  re- 
turned. The  sense  grew  heavier,  passive  waiting 
unbearable.  To  escape  her  foreboding  she  went  out 
into  the  night  and  walked  about  again  in  the  place 
she  had  once  thought  of  as  a  haven.  But  she  quickly 
left  the  rambling  old  village,  seen  for  the  first  time 


434    THE   AMBITION    OF   MARK  TRUITT 

yet  holding  so  many  memories  of  which  she  must 
not  think,  and  went  over  to  the  new  Bethel  with  its 
wide  paved  streets  and  rows  of  pretty  little  cottages. 
Many  of  the  cottages  were  dark  and  untenanted  as 
yet,  but  she  saw  them  as  they  would  be  when  they 
were  the  homes  of  a  happy  folk  who  toiled  without 
exhaustion  or  fear,  with  kindness  in  their  hearts 
one  for  another.  How  often  she  had  heard  that 
picture  painted !  Then  she  had  heard  it  with  a  pang 
of  jealousy,  seeing  in  the  happy  city  only  another 
influence  drawing  him  away  from  her,  hastening  the 
end,  the  inevitable  end,  of  her  dwindling  happiness. 
Now  she  saw  with  understanding  and  sympathy  and 
longing.  If  only  a  place  in  it  could  be  found  for 
her! 

"But  I  mustn't  think  of  that,  either.  It  couldn't 
be — it  oughtn't  to  be.  I  was  foolish  to  come." 

She  left  the  cluster  of  homes-to-be  and  retraced 
her  steps  over  the  street  that  led  past  the  mills  to 
the  bridge,  started  to  cross.  But  at  the  entrance  she 
stopped.  Everywhere  it  was  the  same,  a  redolence 
of  him.  After  all,  to  her  Bethel,  the  haven,  was 
just  Mark  Truitt.  Those  sheds,  the  ranks  of  stacks, 
the  great  furnace  whose  shadow  reached  almost 
to  her,  not  unbeautiful  as  they  lay  cold  and  silent  in 
the  shifting  moonlight,  were  the  child  of  his  brain, 
in  a  large  sense  were  himself.  They  would  always 
be  that  to  her.  They  might  gird  a  continent  with 
steel,  span  rivers,  teach  men  to  defy  the  ocean's 
gales  or  prove  that  industry  and  human  kindness 
were  not  antitheses.  But  to  her  they  would  always 


THE    MIRACLE  435 

be  Mark  Truitt,  the  evidence  of  his  bigness,  his  jus- 
tification. 

With  a  gasp  and  a  sudden  sinking  of  heart  she 
realized  that  the  man  who  could  call  such  a  work 
into  being  was  one  of  the  unique,  the  greatly  en- 
dowed men.  And  she  was  only  a  woman  who  had 
sinned  and  repented  and  then,  forgetting  her  peni- 
tence, sinned  again  for  him. 

Bitter  had  been  the  lesson;  often  during  those 
first  months  after  the  separation  she  had  wished 
that  suffering  could  kill.  But  in  time,  as  she  had 
told  him,  she  had  learned  to  accept  the  truth  with- 
out protest  and  had  readjusted  herself  to  it.  She 
saw  no  great  courage  in  her  "beginning  over  again". 
Her  simple  code — of  creed  and  dogma  she  knew 
little — required  it.  She  had  sinned,  she  had  been 
punished,  she  must  always  pay.  But  that  did  not 
mean  that  she  might  sit  with  folded  hands,  repining 
for  a  lost  love,  weeping  for  her  fault.  With  such 
as  Kazia  the  instinct  to  live,  to  make  of  life  some- 
thing fruitful,  was  unconquerable.  So  in  the  nar- 
row routine  of  her  work  she  had  found  what  ap- 
proximated peace.  At  least,  it  was  something  she 
did  not  wish  to  change.  Her  courage,  she  thought, 
was  unequal  to  new  risks;  she  was  glad  they  did 
not  offer.  She  wanted  only  the  simple,  steadfast 
little  things  that  neither  lifted  the  soul  to  the  high 
places  nor  racked  it  with  regret  and  loss. 

Then  she  had  followed  Piotr  hither,  filled  with 
vague  fears  and  presentiments  that  were  yet  real 
and  compelling.  More  definite  had  been  a  longing, 


436    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

a  need,  to  see  the  work  of  which  she  was  hearing 
and  had  seen  the  birth— and  the  man  who  wrought. 

Instantly  all  her  fine  resolutions  and  philosophy 
had  become  insufficient.  The  sight  of  the  river,  the 
woods  in  their  autumnal  glory,  the  song  of  the  rap- 
ids had  revivified  the  scenes  of  her  one  happiness. 
She  had  found  him,  talked  with  him,  seen  the  kin- 
dling glow  in  his  eyes.  And  hope,  despite  her  in- 
junction, had  leaped. 

She  did  not  think  that  there  might  be  some  to 
see.  She  was  weeping,  head  bowed  on  the  bridge 
rail. 

"Oh,  I  shouldn't  have  come.  I  want  him — him. 
And  I  have  no  right  to  have  him.  It  would  be  the 
crudest  thing  I  could  do  to  him — even  if  he  cared. 
I  was  wrong  to  come." 

Thus  she  told  hope — the  immortal ! — it  must  not 
live.  .  .  . 

Old  Simon  had  no  skill  for  it  and  hence  no  part 
in  the  building  of  the  mills.  But  he  spent  his  days 
watching  them  grow.  Often  at  night,  when  Bethel 
was  sleeping,  he  would  slip  across  the  river  to 
realize  again  that  after  so  many  years  his  dreams 
were  coming  magnificently  true.  It  was  not 
that  the  sneers  and  unbelief  of  his  neighbors  had 
been  answered.  He  loved  the  mills  for  themselves. 
To  him  they  were  a  being  with  a  heart  and  a  soul. 
With  them  he  found  a  companionship  he  had  not 
known  with  man  or  woman  for  forty  years. 

That  night  he  left  his  seat  on  the  stoop,  where  he 
had  been  wonderingly  but  patiently  awaiting  the  ab- 


THE   MIRACLE  437 

sent  Marie,  and  trudged  down  to  the  river  and  across 
the  bridge.  He  saw  the  figure  leaning  on  the  rail 
at  the  farther  end,  but  not  until  he  was  close  did 
he  see  it  was  that  of  a  weeping  woman.  He  would 
have  turned  aside,  but  he  perceived  that  she  had 
heard  him  and  lifted  her  head. 

He  stopped  short,  staring  in  astonishment  at  the 
woman,  a  sort  that  had  never  before  come  within 
his  ken.  A  very  wondrous  sort  she  seemed  there  in 
the  pale  glow  of  the  young  moon,  even  to  Simon, 
who  all  his  life  had  dreamed  of  but  one  woman,  far 
different  from  this  stranger.  He  saw  her  quickly 
master  her  sobs. 

After  a  moment's  hesitation  he  went  to  her. 

"Is  anything  wrong,  ma'am?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Is  there  anything  I  kin  do  fur  ye  ?" 

Again  the  silent  gesture. 

"If  there  is,"  he  persisted,  "I'd  like  to  do  it  fur 
ye." 

She  found  her  voice.  "It  is  nothing."  She  tried 
to  smile.  "Sometimes  women  cry  for  nothing,  about 
little  things." 

"Some  women  do,"  Simon  answered  gravely.  "I 
guess  ye're  a  stranger  here,  ain't  ye?  I'm  Simon 
Truitt." 

She  started.    "You're  his  father?" 

Simon  noted  the  unconscious  use  of  the  pronoun. 
"Mark's,  ye  mean?  Yes,  ma'am.  Did  ye  know 
him,  back  there  in  the  city  ?" 

She  nodded,  not  trusting  herself  to  speak,  and 


438    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

turned  her  face  from  the  moonlight.  She  seemed  to 
be  struggling  again  with  a  rising  sob. 

Simon  found  himself  peering,  closely  and  unin- 
tentionally, into  her  eyes.  He  stepped  hastily  back 
and  heard  himself  speaking  with  a  boldness  he  did 
not  recognize. 

"Mebby  it  was  fur  him  ye  were —  But  I  hadn't 
oughter  ask  that.  Mebby  it's  fur  ye  he's  be'n 
grievin'  ?" 

"It  couldn't  be  that." 

"I've  wondered.  Often  I've  come  on  him  when 
he  thought  he  was  alone,  jest  settin'  and  lookin'  at 
nothin' — an'  grievin',  I  know."  Simon's  face,  too, 
sought  the  shadow.  "I  know." 

"It  might  be  because  of  me  but  not — not  for  me." 

"Not  because  he  wants  ye,  ye  mean  ?  But  it  could 
be  that.  'Tain't  likely  he'd  find  two  such  women  as 
ye,  even  in  the  city.  An'  'tain't  likely  he'd  trouble 
so  much,  if  there  wasn't  a  woman  in  it.  I  wish  ye 
could  give  him  what  he  needs." 

"What  he  needs  is  to  have  his  life  made  over  from 
the  beginning.  He  can't  have  that." 

"If  he's  jest  wantin'  some  one,  there's  a  way  he 
could  have  it." 

"You  don't  understand,"  she  said  wearily. 

"No,  I  don't  understand.  That's  the  trouble.  I'd 
like  to  help  him,  to  give  him  what  he  needs.  But 
I  don't  know  how.  There  nothin'  I  can  give  him." 

He  turned  his  face  away  from  her,  looking  up  at 
the  furnace,  big  and  menacing,  outlined  against  the 
sky.  There  was  silence  among  the  mills.  From  the 


THE   MIRACLE  439 

old  village  behind  them  came  faint  vague  sounds  of 
life :  a  distant  tinkle  of  laughter,  a  crying  child,  a 
neighing  horse.  From  the  new  town  beyond  the 
mills  came  no  sound  but  a  single  voice  in  song,  a 
wild  eery  chant  that  had  been  brought  from  an- 
other land.  The  song  was  finished.  Kazia  and 
Simon  stirred,  as  though  they  had  been  waiting  for 
its  close  to  bring  their  strange  encounter  to  an  end. 

"What's  that?" 

Both  started.  From  somewhere  near  them  had 
come  a  sudden  muffled  cackle  of  mirthless  uncanny 
laughter. 

"Sounds  's  if  it  come  from  the  furnace.  There 
hadn't  oughter  be  anybody  'round  here.  But  I  guess 
it's  just  the  watchman  in  the  power-house.  The 
still  night  makes  it  sound  like  that." 

But  even  as  he  spoke  they  saw  the  figure  of  a 
man  crawling  from  behind  the  furnace.  He  scram- 
bled to  his  feet  and  began  to  run,  with  an  awkward 
hobbling  gait,  up  the  tracks  toward  the  bridge.  The 
moonlight  fell  full  on  his  face. 

"Piotr!" 

As  the  cry,  in  a  voice  he  knew,  reached  him,  the 
man  stopped  suddenly,  stared  wildly  about  and  saw 
the  two  figures  advancing  on  him.  He  raised  his 
hands  in  a  frantic  gesture. 

"Kazia!    Go  back — go  back!" 

She  did  not  heed  his  warning.  "Piotr!  What 
are  you  doing?" 

"Go  back!"  he  screamed.  "You'll  be  killed.  It's 
dynamite !" 


440    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

Instantly  the  others  guessed  what  impended.  Ka- 
zia heard  a  low  moan  beside  her,  saw  Simon  run,  as 
fast  as  his  age-stiffened  limbs  allowed,  toward  the 
furnace,  as  if  he  thought  to  avert  the  imminent  de- 
struction. 

"You  mustn't !"  she  cried.    "Come  back !" 

If  the  old  man  heard,  he  did  not  obey.  She  fled 
after  him,  in  instinctive  purpose  to  drag  him  back 
out  of  danger. 

They  reached  Piotr,  passed  him.  He  stood  be- 
wildered, glancing  uncertainly  toward  the  refuge  of 
the  woods.  Then,  with  a  low  whimpering  cry,  he, 
too,  joined  in  that  moonlight  race.  He  could  not 
have  overtaken  her,  had  she  not  tripped  and  fallen 
over  a  switch.  He  flung  himself  upon  her,  moaning 
shudderingly. 

"Kazia,  I  didn't  want  to  hurt  you." 

Simon  sped  on. 

That  was  what  Mark  Truitt,  crouching  where  he 
had  last  fallen,  saw  just  before  the  explosion  came. 
There  was  a  hoarse  deafening  roar.  The  great  fur- 
nace seemed  to  reel,  then  toppled  and  fell. 

They  found  him  weakly  trying  to  remove  the 
debris  from  a  place  near  the  edge  of  the  ruin.  They 
drew  him  aside  and  a  hundred  strong  hands  took  up 
his  task.  Soon  they  found  the  dead  Piotr  and  under 
him  Kazia,  still  breathing.  It  was  not  until  day- 
break that  they  came  to  Simon. 

Kazia  was  carried  to  the  village  and  laid  in  Doc- 
tor Hedge's  own  house.  All  through  the  night  and 
in  the  morning,  until  the  great  surgeon  from  the  city 


THE   MIRACLE  441 

came,  he  fought  off  death.  Then  the  surgeon  took 
up  the  fight  with  a  knowledge  and  skill  the  old  doc- 
tor did  not  possess.  For  two  days  they  did  not  sleep 
but  watched  and  battled. 

In  the  adjoining  room  a  man,  himself  the  object 
of  the  doctor's  care,  passed  through  his  Gethsemane. 
The  dead,  his  own  pain  and  weakness,  all  else,  were 
forgotten  in  his  agony  for  the  one  who,  it  seemed, 
could  not  live.  Sometimes  he  would  rise  from  the 
couch  where  they  had  laid  him  and  creep  into  the 
other  room  to  join  the  watchers  there  until  the 
sight  of  the  still  bandaged  form  became  more  than 
he  could  bear.  Then  he  would  let  them  lead  him 
back  to  his  couch.  His  lips  moved  constantly,  in 
what  words  he  did  not  know.  Their  burden  was  the 
cry  of  all  Gethsemanes. 

"Let  this  cup  pass  from  me." 

So  the  miracle  was  made  perfect. 

Toward  the  last  of  that  watch  his  weakness  began 
to  overcome  him.  The  doctors  supposed  he  slept  and 
said,  "It  is  best."  He  did  not  sleep.  He  had  lost 
sense  of  his  surroundings  but  his  brain  was  alive.  He 
was  fighting,  struggling  supremely,  to  hold  her  back 
from  the  precipice  over  which  she  was  slowly  fall- 
ing. Once  she  seemed  to  be  slipping  from  his  clasp. 
He  heard  her  piteous  cry  to  him. 

He  rose  with  a  start  and  tottered  into  her  room. 

"She  called  me,"  he  whispered. 

Hedges  thought  it  was  delirium  and  would  have 
led  him  back  to  his  couch.  But  Mark  resisted. 

"I  tell  you,  she  called  me.    I  must  see  her." 


442    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

"Let  him,"  said  the  surgeon.  "Probably  it's  his 
last  chance." 

Hedges  released  him  and  Mark  went  over  to  her. 
He  dropped  to  his  knees  by  the  bedside  and  kissed, 
very  gently,  the  arm  outlined  under  the  sheet. 

"Kazia,"  he  whispered.  "My  life,  my  love,  don't 
leave  me!  Can't  you  hear,  dear? — the  miracle  has 
come !" 

He  thought  that  she  sighed,  as  does  a  tired  child 
when  it  sinks  to  sleep,  and  that  a  little  smile  touched 
the  pale  lips. 

The  others  did  not  see,  but  then  they  had  not 
heard  her  call. 


CHAPTER   XXX 

THE   ULTIMATE   PURPOSE 

IT  was  an  Indian  summer  day,  when  the  sun 
paused  to  smile  genially  back  over  his  shoulder  at 
the  earth  he  was  leaving  to  winter's  cold  mercy,  and 
a  warm  wind  blew  softly.  Toward  noon  Kazia, 
leaning  on  the  doctor  and  his  buxom  wife,  was 
helped  to  the  front  porch,  where  the  Matka  was 
waiting  with  cushions  and  shawls.  In  a  big  rocking- 
chair  the  convalescent  was  made'  comfortable,  with 
cushions  at  head  and  feet  and  the  shawls  tucked 
carefully  around  her. 

"You're  sure  you're  warm  enough?"  queried  Mrs. 
He'dges,  with  needless  anxiety. 

"Quite  sure.    You  all  spoil  me  with  kindness." 

Mrs.  Hedges  gave  a  last  pat  to  the  cushion  behind 
Kazia's  head.  "You  take  a  deal  of  spoiling,  I  think, 
"dearie." 

Kazia  sighed.  "I'll  Hate  to  leave  you."  Tears,  for 
some  reason,  were  treacherously  ready  thai  morn- 
ing. 

"Then,"  drawled  the  doctor,  "you're  thinking  pf 
leaving  us  ?" 

"I  must — soon."  But  under  the  doctor's  twinkling 
443 


444    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

gaze  a  girlish  flush  sprang  into  view — perhaps  to 
keep  the  tears  company. 

"Too  much  color,"  chuckled  the  doctor.  "Let  me 
feel  your  pulse." 

The  crimson  deepened  and  as  instantly  vanished. 

"I've  a  cake  in  the  oven,"  Mrs.  Hedges  suddenly 
remembered.  "Doctor,  I'll  need  you." 

"Need  me?"    The  doctor  stared.    "Am  I  a—" 

"At  once,  Doctor,"  came  a  stern  command  from 
the  hall. 

"Eh?  Oh — !"  A  light  broke  in  upon  him  and 
he  chuckled  again.  "Coming,  my  dear,  coming !" 

The  Matka,  too,  would  have  left  her,  but  Kazia 
stayed  her.  "Don't  go,"  she  said  in  the  Matka's 
tongue. 

The  old  woman  halted,  irresolute.  "He,  your 
lover,  will  be  coming  soon."  Timidly  she  laid  a  thin 
knotted  hand  on  the  scarf  enshrouding  Kazia's  hair. 

Kazia  ignored  that.  "You  will  hate  tp  leave  this 
place,  won't  you?" 

The  Matka  nodded.  "There  is  peace  here.  Even 
the  old  smile  and  make  jests,  and  they  grow  old 
easily,  as  a  child  grows  into  youth.  And  my  Piotr 
is  here."  Her  eyes  sought  a  distant  hillside,  where 
white  stones  gleamed  in  the  sunshine. 

"But  we  must  go.  I  don't  belong  here.  What 
would  these  kind  people  think  if  they  knew" — the 
voice  broke  a  little — "what  you  know." 

"They  would  think  as  I  do.  And  I — I  know  noth- 
ing, except  that  you  love  and  are  loved.  Such  love 
I  have  never  seen.  It  is  not  the  love  your  mother 


THE   ULTIMATE    PURPOSE         445 

and  her  lover  had.  All  here  know  and  are  glad  of  it. 
I  do  not  think  you  can  go  and  leave  him  unhappy." 
And  the  Matka  stole  away. 

"It  came  too  late." 

Kazia's  lips  said  that  and  the  waiting  tears  over- 
flowed, lingering  gem-like  on  the  fringe  of  closed 
lashes.  A  thousand  times  she  had  repeated  the 
words  to  herself  since  the  first  hour  pf  consciousness 
when  she  had  seen  him  bending  over  her.  She 
thought  she  believed  it.  But  her  fast-beating  heart, 
as  she  awaited  her  lover's  coming,  sounded  another 
answer. 

The  heavy  throbbing  ceased,  began  again,  keeping 
time  with  a  trampling  of  hoofs  from  down  the 
street.  Her  closed  eyes  did  not  open  even  when  the 
trampling  ceased  and  she  heard  his  step,  punctuated 
by  the  ring  of  cane  on  gravel,  until  his  step,  too, 
ceased  and  she  felt  him  near  her,  his  gaze  upon  her. 
She  dreaded  to  meet  that  gaze. 

Slowly  the  reluctant  lids  opened  .  .  .  and 
dread  took  wings,  like  a  night  bird  that  had  seen  the 
first  light.  And  the  light  in  his  eyes,  transfiguring 
him  for  her,  thrilling  her  with  its  summons,  was  not 
to  be  mistaken  for  the  fire  that  had  flamed  there  at 
pther  times,  or  for  the  pity  of  one  seeing  his  cruel- 
ties working  out.  Conviction  struck  into  her  heart, 
confuting  the  doubt  and  fear  she  had  fought  with 
herself  to  keep  alive  as  a  defense  against  him.  His 
now,  she  knew,  was  the  true  love  that  knows  no  sa- 
tiety, that  does  not  perish,  but  grows  with  the  years, 
pvercoming  all  things — even  sin-laden  memory.  She 


446    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

did  not  know  that  the  same  transfiguring  glow  rested 
upon  her. 

"It  is  not  too  late,"  her  heart  was  crying,  and  she 
tried  in  vain  to  stifle  its  song. 

But  he  did  not  press  her  then  with  impetuous  woo- 
ing. 

"Do  you  realize,"  he  said  gravely,  "this  is  the  first 
time  since  the  accident  I've  seen  you  alone  ?" 

"Yes,  I — "  she  began  stammeringly.  "The  oth- 
ers have  just  gone  in.  If  you  call  them,  they  will 
come." 

"Then,"  He  smiled  reassuringly,  "I  will  call  them 
at  once,  for  I  have  many  things  to  show  you  to-day, 
and  the  doctor  sets  an  absurd  limit  to  our  drive." 

He  rapped  on  the  door  and  the  doctor  appeared, 
and  behind  him  the  Matka.  Then,  while  the  Matka 
piled  the  cushions  in  the  seat,  Mark  and  the  doctor 
helped  Kazia  over  the  little  walk  and  into  the  buggy. 

"And  mind  you,"  the  doctor  adjured  them,  as 
Mark  got  in  and  the  horse  started,  "two  hours  at  the 
most — if  you  can  keep  track  of  the  time !" 

Then  he  gently  led  the  Matka  back  into  the  house. 
For  she,  who  had  forgotten  how  to  weep  for  sor- 
row, was  weeping  now  for  the  joy  awaiting  Kazia. 

First  Mark  drove,  very  slowly  and  carefully, 
through  the  old  village  and  across  the  bridge  until 
he  came  to  its  middle  point.  There  he  stopped. 

The  mills  were  no  longer,  lifeless  and  silent.  A 
row  of  giant  stacks  spouted  clouds  of  heavy  black 
smoke  that  fluttered  lazily  away  in  the  breeze  in 
long  wavering  pennons.  Through  the  power-house 


THE   ULTIMATE   PURPOSE        447 

windows  the  watchers  caught  a  glimpse  of  great  fly- 
wheels whirling  and  bright  pistons  plunging.  From 
the  rolling-mills  beyond  came  a  low  monitory  rum- 
ble of  engines  stirring  tentatively,  testing  their 
sinews  as  they  waited  to  pounce  upon  and  torture 
the  coming  steel.  And  before  them  towered  the  re- 
built furnace,  alive  now  and  discordantly  vocal  with 
its  first  labor.  Thither  Mark  pointed. 

"Watch  now!  We're  just  in  time.  Our  first  tap!" 

As  he  spoke,  the  shriek  of  the  checked  blast  rose, 
drowning  all  pther  sounds,  and  the  crew  of  men 
working  at  the  furnace  mouth  sprang  back.  Out  of 
a  circle  of  darting  fires  forth  leaped  a  molten 
deadly  flood.  A  channel  in  the  sloping  sand-bed  re- 
ceived it  and  bore  it  swiftly,  in  a  dozen  branches,  to 
the  waiting  ladles.  Little  gaseous  flames  played  imp- 
ishly over  the  golden  surface.  The  stench  of  burn- 
ing sulphur  arose.  As  the  cascading  flood  filled  the 
ladles,  drops  splashed  out  upon  the  ground  and  burst 
in  a  thousand  tiny  points  of  light. 

Almost  before  Kazia  realized  it,  the  flop'd  Had 
subsided  and  the  full  ladles  were  moving  away. 

"It's  all  over?" 

"The  tapping?  For  a  few  hours,  yes.  Inside,  it's 
never  over  until  the  furnace  is  burnt  out." 

"And  this  is  steel!" 

"Not  yet,"  he  smiled.  "It  has  much  to  pass 
through  first.  That,"  he  pointed  toward  the  depart- 
ing ladles,  "is  just  hot  youth,  come  through  its  first 
fires." 

"Could  we,"  she  ventured,  "could  we  follow  it?" 


448    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

"Not  now.  Some  day — when  you  are  stronger." 
His  smile  was  very  gentle.  "Are  you  tired  ?  There's 
much  of  our  two  hours  left." 

"I'm  not  tired.  And  I'm  glad  you  showed  me 
this.  I'll  always  be  glad  I  was  here — at  the  be- 
ginning." She  was  looking  away  from  him  just 
then. 

He  drove  on  and  took  the  long  winding  road  that 
led  past  Hedges'  Hill — though  he  did  not  remind  her 
of  his  meeting  with  Piotr — and  after  many  miles 
circled  back  to  the  village.  They  talked  little,  and 
perhaps  that  little  was  hardly  worthy  of  a  record. 
Kazia  lay  back  in  her  cushions,  her  eyes  following 
his  hand  as  he  pointed  out  some  new  beauty  to  her 
• — a  sunlit  natural  aisle  through  the  woods,  a  stretch 
of  brook  chattering  gaily  along  under  arching  shrub- 
bery, a  flock  of  birds  swinging  across  the  sky  on 
their  southern  pilgrimage,  a  vista  of  hills,  seen  from 
a  crest,  rolling  and  tumbling  away  into  the  blue  haze. 

"How  could  you  leave  it?"  she  murmured,  as 
often  she  had  exclaimed  when  she  had  heard  of  it 
from  the  adventuring  youth. 

"But  if  I  hadn't  left  it,  I  shouldn't  have  found 
you.  So — I'm  glad  I  went." 

She  made  no  answer  to  that. 

Once,  when  the  breeze  had  sharpened  momen- 
tarily and  then  died  down,  he  stopped  the  horse  that 
she  might  the  better  hear  the  loosened  leaves  as  they 
fluttered  slowly,  whispering,  to  the  ground. 

"Hear  them!"  She,  too,  whispered.  "But  I'm 
not  sure  I  like  that.  ,Ypu  see,  for  them  it  is  the  end. 


THE   ULTIMATE    PURPOSE         449 

I  wish  I  could  have  seen  it  in  the  spring.     In  au- 
tumn— "    Her  voice  dwindled  away. 

"But  I  looked  into  the  almanac  the  other  day," 
he  assured  her,  "and  it  says  we're  to  have  a  spring 
next  year." 

To  that,  too,  she  made  no  answer.  But  he  guessed 
her  unspoken  thought  and  kept  it  in  his  mind. 

Farther  on  they  came  to  a  branch  road  that  once 
he  had  known.  He  followed  it  a  while  until  there 
came  to  them  a  delicious  springlike  fragrance.  He 
stopped  the  horse  again. 

"I  thought  I  could  find  it.    See!" 
He  pointed  to  an  old  tree  that  stood,  a  mass  pf 
fresh  green  leaves  and  snowy  blossoms,  a  little  away 
from  the  roadside. 
"What  is  it?" 
"A  pear  tree." 

"But  it's  autumn  and  I  thought — "  She  glanced 
up  at  him  wonderingly. 

"Every  fall  that  tree  puts  out  a  new  set  of  leaves 
and  blossoms.  You  see,  there  is  new  life  even  after 
spring  has  gone." 

She  looked  long  and  earnestly  at  the  blossoming 
tree.  "But  winter  will  come  and  the  blossoms  will 
wither — fruitless." 

No  longer  could  he  refuse  words  to  his  longing. 
"Ah!  my  dear,"  he  cried,  "let  us  forget  signs  and 
symbols.  There  is  such  a  thing  as  new  birth.  And 
it's  always  spring  where  there  is  love.  You  will  for- 
give me,"  he  laughed  unsteadily,  "if  I  talk  like  a 
very  young  poet,  for  I  am  very,  very  happy  to-day." 


450    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK  TRUITT 

A  touch  of  the  old  ready  color  was  glowing  faint- 
ly in  her  wan  cheeks. 

"Have  you  looked  enough?"  he  smiled.  "For, 
if  you  have,  we  must  go.  It  will  be  getting  chilly 
soon.  And  besides,  they  are  waiting  for  us." 

"Waiting—?" 

"Yes.  Didn't  you  know?  Doctor  Courtney  is  to 
marry  us  to-night." 

The  color  vanished  and  she  shrank  back  from 
him,  lifting  piteous  pleading  eyes  to  his. 

"Oh,  Mark,  don't  ask  me  that.  I  can't— I  can't. 
Couldn't  you  let  me  have  this  day — " 

"Did  you  think  I'd  let  you  go  again?  Did  you 
think  you  could  ?  Only  one  thing  in  the  world  could 
make  me  let  you  go — if  you  can  say  you  don't  love 
me.  And  you  can't  say  that." 

"No,  I  can't — say  that.  But  don't  ask  me.  Don't 
you  see,  it  would  be  cruel  to  you — it  would  be  worse 
for  me.  You  forget  now — but  some  day  you  would 
remember — that  I —  Ah!  don't  force  me  to  say  it!" 

Her  thin  wasted  hands  went  to  her  face,  but  he 
drew  them  away  that  she  might  see  he  had  not 
flinched. 

"Kazia,  just  this  once  we'll  speak  of  the  past,  and 
then  we'll  put  it  forever  away  where  the  past  be- 
longs. One  sin  is  much  like  another.  And  for  every 
scar  you  have  I  can  show  many.  I  ask  you  to  for- 
give, you  have  forgiven,  much.  Can't  you  trust  me 
to  forget  a  little?  And,  dear,  all  that — all  the  sins 
and  shadows — were  part  of  a  man  and  woman  we 
have  left  behind." 


THE   ULTIMATE    PURPOSE         451 

SHe  seemed  so  weak"  and  fragile,  lying  there,  this 
wraith  of  the  old  Kazia,  torn  by  love  and  fear!  A 
sudden  mist  shut  her  from  his  sight.  An  unspeak- 
able tenderness  welled  up  within  him,  lending  to  his 
husky  broken  phrases  a  supreme  eloquence  she  need- 
ed to  hear. 

"But  this  love — the  Kazia  trial  called  it  to  life — 
are  part  of  the  new  life.  It  began  those  days  when 
we  thought  you  couldn't  live  and  I  learned  what  love 
is  and  what  it  would  mean  to  lose  you.  It  will  never 
end.  Is  it  /  you  doubt?  Dear,  I  know — I  know. 
And  I  need  you.  Can't  you  understand,  I  need 
you?  You  won't,  you  can't,  fail  me  now?" 

The  mist  began  to  clear  and  he  saw  her  eyes  had 
closed,  her  head  fallen  weakly  back,  as  though  the 
stress  had  overcome  her.  He  thought  she  had 
fainted. 

"Kazia !  I  didn't  mean  to  harm  you — " 

Slowly,  as  if  with  her  last  measure  of  strength, 
she  raised  her  head  and  looked  at  him.  And  the  sur- 
render he  saw  both  wrung  his  heart  and  exalted 
him. 

"Ypu  'don't  know  what  you  ask,"  she  whispered. 
"But  I  can't  fight  against  it  any  longer — I  want  you 
so.  Only  promise  me — when  you  remember — you 
won't  let  me  know." 

"I  promise.    Kazia — !" 

"Ah!  Take  me." 

A  sob  shook  her  and  she  swayed  toward  him.  He 
caught  her  and  drew  her  very  gently  to  him.  .  .  . 
After  a  little  she  smiled  through  her  tears. 


452     THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK   TRUITT 

It  was  evening  and  the  others  had  gone,  leaving 
them  alone  again. 

There  was  no  light  but  the  glow  of  embers  on  the 
hearth  in  the  little  cottage  that  was  to  be  their  home 
for  a  while.  But  it  was  enough  for  them,  in  whose 
hearts  the  unquenchable  torch  was  glowing,  reveal- 
ing beauties  and  glories  they  never  had  known.  They 
sat  very  close,  watching — and  listening. 

For  the  silence  of  the  hills  was  ended  forever. 
Throughout  that  day,  as  the  iron  they  had  seen  flow- 
ing advanced  toward  its  destiny,  the  new  creature 
that  had  come  into  the  valley  had  been  awakening  to 
full  life.  Section  after  section  had  received  the  life- 
giving  power,  until  now  all  the  huge  mechanism  was 
in  motion,  driving,  whirling,  pounding  at  top  speed. 
The  earth  quivered  in  answer  to  its  pulsation. 
Crunching  metal,  raging  blasts,  fires  such  as  served 
at  the  creation,  lifted  their  voices  in  chorus — an  ode 
of  the  elements  to  man  the  master,  the  song  of  steel. 
A  terrible  song  whose  beauty  only  the  understand- 
ing might  discern :  singing  madly  of  power  and  pas- 
sion and  purpose,  of  struggle  and  death,  of  birth  and 
life,  of  triumph  and  steadfast  strength. 

To  the  lovers,  rich  in  the  knowledge  that  comes 
only  after  sin  and  payment  and  release,  the  song 
came  not  in  vain. 

"Ought  you  to  be  there?"  she  whispered. 

"Not  to-night,  dear." 

"Could  we  see  it  from  here  ?" 

He  helped  her  to  a  chair  by  the  south  window  and 
stood  at  her  side  while  she  saw. 


THE   ULTIMATE    PURPOSE         453 

The  night  sketched  the  drama  of  steel  for  her. 
Again  the  great  furnace  was  setting  free  its  lambent 
flood.  Under  open  sheds  were  gleaming  the  sun- 
bright  mouths  of  other  furnaces  where  the  iron 
boiled  and  boiled  and  became  steel.  She  saw  a  mass- 
ive white-hot  ingot  plunge  into  a  pit  of  flame.  An- 
other emerged,  swung,  a  beautiful  pillar  of  fire  that 
seemed  to  float  by  a  magic  of  its  own  through  the 
air,  to  its  bed  of  cylinders,  darted  eagerly  forward  to 
enter  a  new  ordeal.  Beyond  fiery  serpents  were 
writhing  and  darting  in  swift  loops  and  circles  but 
yielding,  always  yielding  to  the  resistless  molding 
pressure.  And  in  a  long  gallery,  far  down  the  valley, 
luminous  lines  and  bars  lay  at  rest — the  steel,  its  ar- 
dor cooling,  its  beauty  fading,  but  fine  in  grain  and 
strong,  shaped  at  last  to  its  ultimate  purpose. 

"Ah!"  Wonderment  and  adoration  were  in  her 
cry.  "And  it  is  yours — it  is  you!" 

"Not  I,  not  mine !  I  don't  know  how  many  gen- 
erations of  men  gave  themselves  that  we  might  have 
that.  I  know  it  was  not  for  me,  fpr  any  man.  For 
all  who  suffer  and  toil." 

His  face  was  set  sternly  toward  the  mills.  For 
a  long  time  he  was  silent. 

"What  is  it?"  Again  she  broke  the  silence  with 
a  whisper.  "What  do  you  see  out  there?" 

Sternness  melted  into  tenderness. 

"A  parable,"  he  smiled  down  on  her,  "of  pur  lives 
• — of  life.  Desire  and  disillusionment,  battle  and 
toil,  conquest  and  failure,  evil  and  shame — the  fires 
and  pressures  that  burn  us  and  shape  us."  His  hand 


454    THE   AMBITION   OF   MARK   TRUITT 

rested  on  her  hair.   "And  the  purpose  in  which'  the 
real  life  begins." 

"Ah!  I  wouldn't  have  you  different.  But  to  me 
— to  me  life  isn't  a  parable — it  is  you.  .  .  .  This 
peace,  this  content — I  can't  believe  yet  that  they  are 
true,  that  they  always  will  be  true.  Ah!  Teach 
me,  teach  me !  ,  ,  ." 


THE  END 


000127694    8 


